VICTORIA'S SECRET
by NokuMarieDeux
Summary: Two old men, two continents… and an explosive discovery that will alter history as they've known it.
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1:_** A MESSAGE FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE**

_**Monday, April 5**__**th**__**… 4:00pm in Reston, Virginia…**_

In a tastefully appointed office at the law firm of Grenville, Overton, North & Rye, a dapper elderly gentleman made ready to depart, adjusting his bow tie and uncrossing his legs. The generous proportions of the burgundy leather club chair in which sat Doctor Donald Mallard caused him to appear slighter than he actually was. In his youth, despite being somewhat vertically-challenged and spare-framed, his compact physique and robust athleticism had vanquished many an opponent on the playing field. Adherence to a healthy regime carried him in good stead throughout his active adult years and continued to do so, although nowadays physical exercise more often took the form of less strenuous activities such as golf and walks in the park.

Seated opposite, senior partner Harold Grenville—topping six feet and carrying more poundage than his wife and general physician would have liked—still evoked an image of offensive lineman, which position he'd played at Yale. Both men were of an age, well past seventy, at which point they could have retired from their respective vocations had they so chosen. On a first-name basis after their many years of professional association, they considered themselves friends and confidantes. However, as today's meeting was business rather than casual, they observed a line of appropriate demeanor as tangible as the antique mahogany desk separating them.

"I assume we're done here?" Doctor Mallard queried in his plummy British accent.

"Not quite, Donald," the native Bostonian rumbled.

"What do you mean, Harold? The terms of the will seem quite straightforward to me."

"I can assure you they are. Aside from the specific bequests of which you've already been made aware, you are sole beneficiary. To the best of my knowledge there are no other claimants."

"Is there a problem?" Blue-faded-to-gray eyes peered quizzically over bifocals.

"No… not a problem, exactly." With a resigned sigh, the portly attorney carefully removed his horn-rimmed spectacles and squeezed the bridge of his nose, anticipating with gloom the reaction the next phase of the meeting would elicit. He dreaded when clients entrusted him with secrets to be dumped—post-demise and after-the-fact—into the laps of unsuspecting heirs. Replacing the glasses with equal care, he cleared his throat. "One item remains… unrelated to the will itself, as it happens."

The unsuspecting heir resettled himself against the plush leather, recrossing his legs and clasping his hands in his lap—mildly annoyed… but curious. His plans for the afternoon did not include expending any more hours settling his late mother's estate. The previous four hours had been tedious enough and his fingers cramped from signing endless sheaves of documents.

On a corner of the desk reposed an oxblood leather courier case fitted with an ornate brass lock. Drawing it near, Grenville ceremoniously unlocked it with a key taken from the desk's center drawer. From it he removed a ten-by-twelve ivory vellum envelope, which he slid across the polished surface to Doctor Mallard.

The other man studied the envelope, noting his name rendered in a very familiar longhand with stylish flourishes indicative of an expensive education obtained in an exclusive Edwardian-era female seminary. Picking it up and turning it over, he examined the old-fashioned wax seal embossed in the traditional manner with a signet ring—an item currently secured in a safe deposit box along with the rest of his mother's jewelry.

"What's this, then?" he inquired mildly.

"A communiqué from your late mother," Grenville replied tersely, taking extra care to stifle even the slightest hint of humor.

"Yes. I can see that. What does it concern?"

"I would prefer that you read it for yourself," was the evasive response. "But if I had to categorize, I suppose I would describe it as a deathbed confession of sorts."

"When were you given this?"

"The week after she was diagnosed."

"Then it would hardly have been written from her deathbed, Harry. Please explain."

The lawyer had the good grace to appear discomfited. "A few weeks after rendering her last will and testament in your presence, Victoria requested I attend her privately to discuss another matter before she…" Here he stumbled but recovered smoothly. "While she was still able to do so. She produced a hand-written testament, which she asked me to read and sign as witness, whereupon it was placed in the envelope, sealed and given into my keeping until such time as… that is, until now. I was sworn to secrecy."

The lady had still been in possession of most of her mental faculties when, three years prior, her personal physician pronounced the onset of Alzheimer's disease. As the information had not been kept from her and she was fully aware of the ramifications, mother and son had planned accordingly, with the guidance of Grenville _et al_. Her descent into full-blown dementia was swift and terrifying. Now that death had released Victoria Mallard from her earthly imprisonment, it appeared not all preparations had been made in concert with her son: the decedent had undertaken some arrangements of her own _without_ his knowledge.

"You're quite certain you can't… or won't… reveal the contents?" Though having gingerly picked up the envelope, Mallard seemed reluctant to open it.

"The contents are personal in the extreme, Donald. I gave my word… I hope you understand."

The other man felt of the envelope, palpating between his fingers a small hard padded lump. "It feels like a key. May I at least inquire as to its purpose?"

Grenville nodded, withdrawing from the document case a purple velvet drawstring bag, which in turn yielded a slim rectangular rosewood box with its own locking mechanism. "I was instructed to advise you to read her missive before opening this."

"I don't suppose you're inclined to tell me what's in there, either." No effort to disguise the sour overtone.

"That I do not know. All I was told is that it contains the missing piece to a puzzle."

"Oh goodie. I do so enjoy surprises," the recipient uttered facetiously, without a glimmer of joy. As much as he loved unraveling a good mystery, he loathed surprises when they applied to himself.

The lawyer got to his feet. "I would suggest you read the letter now, before you leave here. That way, if you have further questions…"

"Yes. Thank you. I shall do that."

Grenville buzzed his secretary in the outer office. "Miss Belmont… please see to it a fresh pot of tea is brought in for Doctor Mallard. I'll be in the library if anyone needs me."

############

_**Thirty minutes later… a surreal revelation…**_

When Grenville returned, it was to find Doctor Mallard in a cold sweat and on the verge of shock. The hands clutching the pages of the letter were trembling and his face paper white.

"Donald... are you all right? Do you need a glass of water? Should I call a doctor?" Grenville struggled to remain calm. It wouldn't do at all to have the eminent forensic psychologist suffer a heart attack or... worse ... drop dead on the premises. Grenville knew as well as his friend that the information contained in those pages must never, ever be revealed by anyone other than Mallard himself and the likelihood of _that_ happening was next to nothing. Whatever secret clearances the doctor possessed or ever _had_ possessed would be revoked. Every aspect of his history from day one would come under intense and microscopic scrutiny. Why, the law firm itself might be investigated!

As the lawyer hovered ineffectually, wringing his hands, Mallard recovered sufficiently to speak in a measured croak. "Are you absolutely sure, Harry, no one else knows about... this?"

"I swear on my life, Donnie. That case went into our vault within the hour I returned from seeing Victoria."

"You do realize this letter must never fall into anyone else's hands as long as I'm living?"

"Yes, yes… of course. And to that end I recommend it either be returned to our vault… or at least placed in your private safety deposit box. Have you opened the… er… box?"

"I'm not sure I even want to at this stage… but I suppose I must. Can you unwrap the key for me? My fingers seem to have gone all wonky."

Grenville got out a small penknife and proceeded to cut through the layers of protective wrap and tape. "Shall I open the box for you as well?"

"If you don't mind."

Inserting the little key, the lawyer opened the latch and lifted the lid to reveal a tissue-wrapped object. With a nod from the doctor to proceed, he removed it and unfolded tissues from a slim volume bound in red leather. On the cover and spine a date was stamped in gold leaf. He knew what it was and so did the doctor. Victoria Mary Elizabeth Mallard, née Stewart, had kept a journal for every year of her life from age sixteen until she became too incapacitated to continue.

Donald Mallard had always known of their existence, just as he had always known where to find the key to the steamer trunk in which they were kept, but he had never been tempted to pry. Even after her death, he had not felt comfortable about delving into them, nor had he had the time. He had not known that particular year was missing until a postmortem inventory of her personal effects had marked its absence. Even then, he had not attached any significance to the fact that it represented the year of his birth. Obviously she had kept that one journal hidden for a purpose. Now, thanks to her letter, he knew why…

Donald Mallard was _not_ the man he thought he was… and never had been. He wasn't even a Mallard by lineage. His true heritage lay between the covers of a little red book. _Victoria's secret… how apropos,_ he thought idly.

############

**"**_**What do I do now, Harry?"**_

…Mallard plaintively inquired of his friend, who had subsided into his executive chair on the other side of the desk. "If I'm not Donald Horatio Mallard, who then am I?"

In contemplation of the doctor's situation, Grenville clasped his hands over his expansive girth. "You do nothing, Donnie. Nothing at all. _You _have been _you_ for seventy-seven years. Legally you _are_ a Mallard and shall remain a Mallard until you die. Says so right on your birth certificate and there's no one left alive to contradict the legality of your status."

"But I'm not… not really. And there's the… the _other_ to consider. What if he's still alive? Do I not have a moral obligation to look for him?"

"Believe me, you do _not._ Just because your mother bore twins and chose to dispose of one of them…"

"Please, Harry!" Mallard shuddered. "Please do not use the word 'dispose' in such a cavalier manner… as if she'd drowned a kitten. I couldn't bear the thought…"

"I'm sure she did no such thing. Perhaps she adopted it out… 'rehomed' I believe is the popular phrase these days."

"_Him,_ Harry… not _it_, if you please. But why… why would she keep one of identical twins and give away the other? It's unconscionable."

"I suspect the answer lies in yon diary. Why don't you take it and the letter home with you and look them over carefully. Have a good long think about it over a slug or three of Macallan. After seven decades, there's certainly no need to rush into anything. And Donnie, keep in mind… if you do decide to start making inquiries and turning over rocks, _someone_ is going to notice. My advice: don't do it. Were I in your shoes, I would _burn_ that letter _and_ the journal… after I'd read it, naturally."

"Naturally."


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2:_** THE COLLEGE AT THE BACK OF BEYOND**

_**Wednesday, April 7th… Goat Rock, Montana...**_

Glacier Institute—a private, progressive liberal arts college with emphasis on visual and performing arts—was located in the middle of nowhere between Whitefish and the foothills of Glacier National Park. Its presence generally went unnoticed by the seasonal migrations of winter skiers heading north to the slopes of mountain resorts or summer tourists venturing east to the park.

Though students took _all_ studies seriously, their chief aim was to enhance the nation's cultural welfare through aesthetic appreciation. After all, man did not live by bread alone—he needed sights and sounds pleasing to heart and mind. Promoting what pleased the soul was best left to other establishments specializing in those matters. Sororities, fraternities and competitive sports had no place here, where individual achievement was prized above team spirit.

The coeducational dormitories were unmonitored as students were expected to conduct themselves with good sense, good manners and discretion. An apartment building housed faculty and non-teaching support personnel. Hardly anyone lived off-campus as there weren't many other places to live.

An unincorporated community with the uninspired name of Goat Rock had gradually coalesced at the entrance to the campus. On either side of the main drag lay the business district: independent family-owned services including one each restaurant, coffee shop, unisex beauty/barber salon, and gas station/convenience store. The lone grocery incorporated a pharmacy and mini-clinic with a part-time nurse who doubled as pharmacist. The general store dealt in hardware, ammunition, feed and seed, and a limited offering of basic clothing. A cement-block edifice labeled City Hall housed the county deputy sheriff who was also fire chief and the mayor whose day job was postmistress of the closet-size facility as well as the town's lone attorney. In a similar structure nearby dwelt the fire department and emergency medical service, volunteers all. Three courtyard-style motels were always booked solid during college events—latecomers had to find rooms as far away as Whitefish and Columbia Falls. For the truly desperate, rental units were occasionally available in a recreational vehicle campground adjacent to rental stables and a wrecker service fronting a salvage yard.

As unassuming as it was, Goat Rock offered just about everything anyone _needed_, if not what he or she _desired_. While students regularly patronized local establishments for odds and ends unobtainable from the on-campus store, there were no amusements or entertainment venues to divert their attentions—which was exactly how the city fathers and the dean of the institute conspired to keep it. The nearest state-controlled liquor store was located in Whitefish, although limited quantities of beer and wine could be purchased at the grocery under strict guidelines enforced by the proprietor. Devoid of zoning restrictions, a loosely-defined residential area of cabins, modular homes and mobile homes fringed the outskirts of the village.

############

_**The girls…**_

Vocal performance students Pallas Athena Ross and Veronica April Slate lived across the corridor from each other in Caruso Hall. Having met in their sophomore year, the girls had bonded over their similar heritage. Pallas Ross was a native Montanan with an American mother and British-born expatriate father.

Veronica 'Ronnie' Slate's father, also British-born, was the product of a workplace romance that had dissolved amicably in his early childhood. As a career foreign service diplomat and widower, Sidney had entrusted care of his infant daughter to his father Mark and stepmother Alice in England. Though having never married and maintaining her principal residence in Los Angeles, Sidney's American mother, April Dancer, remained an active presence in her granddaughter's life.

Ronnie had spent so many of her teenage years shuttling back and forth between London and California that she was able to toggle between nationalities with ease. With her British grandparents, she was Veronica Slate—poshness personified. Visiting with her American grandmother during school holidays and taking as her pseudonym April's surname, she morphed into 'Ronnie Dancer', surfboard goddess. Occasionally, when vexed or under stress, she would get her two faces mixed up and she and Pallas would have a good giggle over it.

############

_**The boys…**_

Pallas's fiancée, music student Rowan Cameron, and Ronnie's boyfriend, student of dance Mikhail 'Misha' Rostov, both lived two doors down from the girls… until a week ago: Misha received an offer he couldn't refuse from the New York City Ballet Company. Abruptly dropping out, he kissed Ronnie farewell and jetéed away to the City That Never Sleeps. Hot on the heels of Mikhail's departure came a new boy to town, intending to visit his cousin Misha and chagrined to find him gone.

Never one to wallow in a pity party over a terminated love affair, Ronnie perked up at first sight of the handsome stranger with eyes the deep crystalline blue of Crater Lake, an enigmatic smile and shaggy shoulder-length sandy blond hair highlighted with sun streaks. His body type was similar to Misha's—short, slender, physically fit but not musclebound. Like his cousin, he moved with a dancer's feline grace. _Oh, yeah._ She fully intended to get a piece of _that_ before he moved on, as she confided to Pallas in a private moment.

"Good grief!" Pallas scolded. "You've only known the dude five minutes!"

"So what?" Ronnie sniffed. "How many times have _you_ gone on about wanting to dive on Rowan from the moment you first met?"

"Yeah… but it was months before we did the deed. You don't know anything at all about this man."

"I seem to recall you complaining it took longer than that to really get to know Row. What is it about men, anyway? Either all they want is to yak about themselves… or trying to get anything out of them is like trying open an oyster with a plastic butter knife."

"But shouldn't you find out _something_ about his background? What if he's a criminal wanted by the FBI, CIA, CPB, PETA or Interpol?"

"Look… I don't care if he's on the run from MI5, CI5, Scotland Yard, Greenpeace, Le Bureau des Étrangers or UNCLE. Maybe he's a gypsy… I mean, who lives in a camper van? I'm not looking for Mr Right anyway. I'm looking for Mr Right Now and he's it. End of story."

"Uh… Uncle _who?_"

"Never mind."

"Omigod… you're _such_ a slut!"

############

_**That evening...**_

Pallas, Rowan and Ronnie and treated the visitor to dinner at the Dew Drop Inn. A pleasant conversationalist with exquisite manners, he was nonetheless vague about himself and they were too polite to ask questions. At best they gathered that 'Eli Roman' was on an indefinite leave of absence from an unspecified occupation and touring the west with no particular itinerary in mind.

One nugget of personal information was of more than passing interest to the three students. It transpired that Eli was also a musician, admitting to some proficiency on the piano before deftly embarking on another subject. On the return drive to their residence hall after dropping him off at his camper, they speculated his origins lay in some former Eastern Bloc country—most likely Russia, as his cousin Misha proudly hailed from Moscow. He spoke softly with what they assumed must be Russian intonation, faint though it was… and however fluent and idiomatically correct his English, it probably wasn't his native language.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3:_** DUCKY'S DILEMMA**

_**Friday, April 9th… 5:00pm, Georgetown, Washington, D.C. …**_

Although everyone at work was aware that the chief medical examiner's mother had for some time been living in the monitored Alzheimer's wing of an exclusive assisted living facility, Donald 'Ducky' Mallard had chosen to withhold the news of her demise. No one had the temerity to question his requested two-week leave of absence. As his mother had not maintained any religious affiliations while living, he'd seen no point in observing the traditional rituals involved in sending off a loved one. Interment arrangements had long been in place and a headstone ready for immediate installation, lacking only the date of death.

With the director of the funeral home twittering all the while about the irregularity of a funeral with no obituary, no ceremony and no presiding minister, the casket was lowered into the grave with what that august gentleman deemed indecent haste. Only Doctor Mallard and Counselor Grenville were in attendance as mourners.

Afterwards, Mallard and the attorney retired to the latter's office to tidy up loose ends. A phone call to a prominent real estate agent informed that individual that the Reston mansion was that day officially on the market, and that Doctor Mallard was ready to close on his future domicile—a handsome brownstone townhouse in Georgetown. The two gentlemen lunched at Grenville's club before meeting the appraiser who was to document the contents of the mansion prior to consignment to an auction house. Mallard had already tagged the few items he wished to keep and provided loyal staff with generous bonuses. The married couple that had served them regretfully declined to move with him to Georgetown, wishing to remain near their children and grandchildren. His mother's beloved corgis had been satisfactorily rehomed shortly after her installation in the nursing home, so that was one less worry.

When Doctor Mallard returned to work at the conclusion of his assumed vacation, his coworkers were stunned at the rather casual announcement of his mother's death and his new address. They wanted to give him a proper housewarming, which he declined.

############

_**"****Be not afraid of going slowly, be afraid only of standing still" (Chinese proverb) …**_

Four days had elapsed since that momentous revelation in Grenville's office, during which time Ducky applied himself to setting his digs in order with the assistance of a newly retained housekeeper. The fiftyish woman lived up to every one of her glowing references… and then some. Silent, efficient and an excellent cook, Mrs Emily Benefield possessed the uncanny knack of anticipating her new employer's every need.

Ducky had loved his eccentric mother and missed her to a certain extent, but Victoria Mallard had been a demanding woman, requiring his absolute attention whenever he wasn't at work. Far from feeling lonely, he relished coming home to a sparkling clean, welcoming house and a tasty meal needing only warming in the oven or microwave. So it was with equal parts guilt and relief he looked forward to retiring to his study in the evenings, comfortably arrayed in pajamas, robe and slippers. There he could read or listen to music or select something to watch from his expansive library of DVDs.

It being a light day with little work in the lab, Ducky knocked off early. This evening a cheerful cherrywood-scented blaze crackled in the fireplace. A crystal decanter of single malt scotch and matching tumbler were to hand on the antique side table. With peace and release from the awful responsibility he had been shouldering for years, what more could a confirmed bachelor want or need?

What he had not _yet_ done… what he was psyching himself up to embark upon… was opening that damnable diary, reinterred in the rosewood box and locked in the trunk along with its brethren. Yes, he dearly wanted to know _why_ his mother had done what she _claimed_ to have done in the letter. But the practical—or rather, _impractical—_aspects of searching for a _possible_ long-lost twin brother were simply mind-boggling. It was too late. He… _they_… were too old. What possible difference would such discovery make in his… _their_… elder years, which he resolutely refused to identify as _declining_ years. Chronology was just numbers. He was healthy, content (more or less) and still had all his marbles, not to mention hair and teeth. No need to even consider retirement until the day he actually expired over a corpse on the table. Now, _there_ was an interesting image to contemplate.

But still… a _brother?_… after all these years?

_Leave it alone, Ducky. Don't tempt fate._

############

_**Meanwhile… seven hours ahead near Caviano, Switzerland…**_

Another elderly gentleman was luxuriating in a steaming sunken Jacuzzi on a flying deck overlooking Lago Maggiore. Far below, the wind-riffled waters of the alpine lake glittered like diamonds under the stark bright light of a full moon. The distant foreshore was limned with topaz glimmers indicating other enclaves of wealth and privilege.

Perched on a plateau below Monte Gambarogno, the bungalow—or _dacha_, as its owner fondly thought of it—was one of eight similar dwellings in a cul-de-sac. None of the homes presented an exterior ostentatious enough to attract undue attention—certainly nothing as grand as a villa, or that would interest _Architectural Digest._ A narrow macadamized road serpentining upslope from the village of Caviano culminated in the enclave. At its beginning, the gated road was clearly marked as a private drive, thereby discouraging sightseers.

Nestling between the foot of the mountain and the shoreline, the village lay on either side of the Via Cantonale, a busy scenic byway favored by summer tourists. Even at this late hour—nearing midnight—streaming red and white dots below marked motorists seeking accommodations. At the Italian-Swiss border crossing one kilometer to the south at Dirinella, they had no doubt been advised the pickings ahead were slim to none until Locarno. Aside from a handful of petrol station-convenience store combinations and small family restaurants, there was little to entice an outsider to linger in Caviano. The villagers had a vested interest in protecting the interests of the expatriate mountaintop dwellers as its economy depended, for the most part, on providing goods and services as well as domestic personnel to the residents. What could not be obtained locally could be ordered and delivered via FedEx, UPS, DHL, helicopter, seaplane, hydrofoil or water taxi.

The bungalow's driveway gently sloped downward to a two-car garage and finished basement. A visitor (and there were few other than family) could use the parking pad steps away from the double front doors opening to a foyer on the main floor. A long hall led past the kitchen, dining room, bathroom, sauna and study to the great room. This last featured a rock-faced fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows giving out through sliding doors to the deck with its spectacular view of the lake and the mountains beyond. A staircase in the foyer accessed the second floor containing four bedrooms and two full baths.

All in all, the location suited the man who, some twenty-six years earlier, had turned his back on his previous life. Now known as Herr Doktor Elijah Bauer, he was fluent in all the languages spoken here—Swiss German, Italian, French and English—plus many others, and he had long ago mastered the ability to mimic almost any nationality he chose when traveling.

This was not the Bauers' only _pied-à-terre—_having choices and the wherewithal to take advantages of them were comforting in their advancing years. When came winter snows, the doctor and his wife could visit one of their children in California, Ireland or Australia… or retreat to the island of Saint Marie in the Lesser Antilles, where they maintained a modest villa in the hills overlooking the Caribbean. However, their favored alternate residence was a restored _hacienda_ at the heart of a working vineyard in California's Napa Valley.

############

_**The rancho in the valley…**_

As a retirement bonus for outstanding services loyally rendered, Governor Pablo Vicente de Solá of Alta California in 1823 conferred upon one of his favored attachés a parcel of land in a newly-explored territory. Back home in Spain, as fourth son of a Catalonian family distantly related to House of Barcelona, Guillem de Lanza y Piños would have inherited nothing beyond his distinguished name. However, as owner of nearly nine thousand acres in a verdant valley of rolling hills situated between two mountain ranges, he was now elevated to the status of _ranchero_… or would be once he did something with it. First off, he hired a coterie of ex-soldiers to serve as his private army. Go forth and evict and/or kill the native inhabitants, he ordered. Upon further contemplation, realizing he would be needing those warm bodies to work his future _rancho_, orders were amended to subdue and enslave.

The next step was acquiring a starter herd of cattle and building a magnificent _hacienda_ befitting his position. As Guillem had remained on-site in temporary housing to personally oversee construction, he hadn't seen his wife and eight children in three years. At completion of the project in 1826, he posted a summons by courier. Only six of the children and their _dueña_ showed up, their mother and two siblings having succumbed to lung fever only weeks before.

Guillem then appealed to his neighbor, Padre José Diego Bautista, holder of Mission San Napa, to find him a suitable replacement helpmeet from a respectable family. The priest assigned a trusted associate to carry out the search in San Francisco, the nearest city within fifty miles. Finding success with the first matchmaker he visited, the curate returned two weeks later with a convent-reared seventeen-year-old… shy, sweet and naïve but exceedingly homely. The nuns had despaired of ever having her taken off their hands.

Guillem gulped at first sight of his bride-to-be with a face that would stop a clock, but at fifty-five with a half-dozen children in need of a mother, he couldn't be too picky. Guillem hadn't reckoned with a new, much _younger_ wife's fecundity. Within the year she popped out another child, and two more in rapid succession. By 1830 he was obliged to add a second story to the _hacienda_ to accommodate successive arrivals. Celibacy never occurred to him. Or her… and she still had a basket of eggs left to fertilize.

The de Lanza y Piños empire didn't endure, of course. Disease and natural disasters took their toll… but the worst of these was the incursion of American immigrants looking to establish their own farms or stake gold claims. Guillem breathed his last on the day California attained statehood. Most of the older children had married out and none of the sons or sons-in-law were interested in cattle ranching. The widow took a long hard look at her financial situation and sold up, taking her remaining brood back to San Francisco.

Successive owners divested themselves of bits and pieces as needed, until the _rancho_ was reduced to fourteen hundred acres including the _hacienda_, listed on the National Register of Historic Places, and its attendant outbuildings. The house had been kept in moderate to good repair for one hundred sixty years. The Bauers acquired the estate in the mid-1980s, installing as manager one Juan Carlos García, retired, US Marine Corp. Both García and his wife Teresa had been born in the valley and raised in the vinery business.

By 1995 the house and all the outbuildings had been completely renovated. Tessa and two maids kept the interior spotless. A groundskeeper and assistant ensured the grounds were immaculately groomed. Carl and a crew of veteran employees attended the abundantly producing vineyards.

García and his family lived in a separate cottage on the grounds. With the exception of two permanent family residents, the upper story of the big house was mostly closed off when not in use by various other Bauer family members, which was fairly frequently. Summers, the location was convenient for beach vacations during school holidays—one hour to Bodega Bay oceanside and twenty minutes to San Pablo Bay inshore. At other times of the year, adults made it their base for relaxing getaways.

Normally the elder Bauers would be shutting down the Swiss residence around the first of November and removing to warmer climes before the first snowfall. But this year a family event was calling them to California in the month of June, where they might—or might not—decide to dig in for the remainder of the year.

############

_**Reality intrudes…**_

"Ilyusha!"

The call snapped Doctor Bauer out of his reverie. He turned his head, smiling, toward the woman framed in the open door.

"Ah… _il mio tesoro_…"

"It's time to come in."

"I have a better idea, _mein liebling… _why not join me?_"_

"Are you crazy? It's freezing! The last thing we need is for you to catch your death before the wedding."

"Nonsense, _mon trésor_. I'm healthy as a horse."

"Come in anyway, _mi querido simplón_. It's past your bedtime…"

"_Ty svitlo mogo zhuttya._" He blew her a languid kiss.

"_¡Tú vieja cabra!_ I'll light up more than your life if you don't come out this instant! Don't make me have to come over there!" But she was laughing.

"Ah… _mi belleza!_ Promises, promises!"

Minus trident and seahorse chariot, the man formerly known as Illya Nicoleyvich Kuryakin regretfully arose from the swirling waters with all the gravitas of Neptune and, throwing on his robe, made his way indoors.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4:_** THERE'S A NEW KID IN TOWN**

_**Saturday, April 10th… 10:00am, Goat Rock, Montana…**_

With a backlog of laundry to do and a lot of missed sleep to catch up on, Elijah Roman opted to take a break from traveling. After investigating as much of the village of Goat Rock as he could on foot, he strolled over to the stables adjacent to the RV park, intending to renew an earlier conversation with the voluble geezer who owned and operated both establishments. In their brief encounter at check-in, Jack Harper had claimed descendancy from a notorious gunfighter, Jess Harper. Eli was intrigued and wanted to hear more.

All the horses had been turned out and the old man was busy mucking out stalls. Having spent the last seven years around horses and no stranger to the work involved, Eli automatically grabbed a fork and pitched in. If Jack was surprised at the unsolicited assistance, he didn't comment as they worked their way down the row without talking much. Eli knew to refrain from peppering a new acquaintance with a lot of questions—one learned a lot more by letting the other person set the direction and tone of the discourse.

"Ain't from 'round here, are ya?" Jack eventually queried.

"Nope," Eli answered noncommittally_. _"Just stopped by to visit my cousin at the college but he's already left." Earlier, the old man had not asked the reason for Eli's being in Goat Rock, but it seemed polite to volunteer the information.

"Too bad ya missed 'im. Be movin' on soon, then?"

"Might as well stay until the end of the week as I'm paid up 'til then," Eli shrugged. "After that, haven't decided."

"Reason I'm askin', if yer ponderin' on settin' a spell an' need some pocket jingle, I could use me a part-time helper. Can't pay much but I'll throw in free lot rent."

Eli considered the offer. "Don't really _need_ a job… but I wouldn't mind helping out in the mornings in return for that free rent… and maybe letting me ride some while I'm here?"

"Ya got yerself a deal, sonny," the old man beamed, "Put 'er there!" They shook on it, then ambled over to the rear of the stables to look over the rental stock, bypassing a pasture containing privately-owned boarders. At the rental paddock, Jack pointed out a nice little roan mare he thought would be a good fit for such a scrawny little feller. But Eli's gaze wandered past the enclosure to the field beyond, where a solitary horse grazed serenely in the company of a geriatric Guernsey, a bony white mule and two corpulent donkeys.

A singularly unattractive beast, the gelding's coat color was somewhere between wet cement and undercooked oatmeal, randomly splotched with amoeba-like brown patches. Its skimpy mane and sparse tail looked as if they had been gnawed by rodents. Otherwise, it seemed healthy and fit. Eli's practiced eye racked up its good points, discounting the packaging.

"What about that one?" he asked. "What's he called?"

"He's got some long-winded Injun name but I calls 'im 'Cheetah' on account a all them spots."

Eli considered that, in terms of visual appeal, the pelt of an actual cheetah would be infinitely more attractive than this unfortunately endowed creature. Given a choice, though, Cheetah was his and he said as much.

Jack regarded his new employee with frank reappraisal. The lad had just picked out what in his opinion was one of the finest trail horses he'd ever owned in all his long-past cowboyin' days. However, he explained that, as Cheetah hadn't been ridden in a month of Sundays, he needed an experienced rider with the patience and energy to deal with a fresh horse. "He's li'ble ta throw ya inter next week."

"Just the same, can I give him a go?"

Jack Harper's instinct told him this young man wasn't all hat and no cattle. He made a judgment call. "Ya don't mind getting' a lil bunged up, he's yourn can ya get a saddle on 'im. So, when ya wanna try 'im out?"

"How about right now?"

############

_**When in Rome…**_

On Saturday morning, Eli had just barrowed out the last load of manure when his new buddies rolled up in a battered rust-encrusted Jeep.

"What're you doing here?" Row asked, surprised. "Thought you'd be long gone by now."

"Decided I'd hang around a while, help Jack in return for riding privileges."

"Oh… great! Pallas and Ronnie and I board our own horses here. We're going swimming and having a cookout. You're welcome to join us if you'd like."

"I don't want to intrude…"

"No worries," Pallas interjected, grinning. "We've plenty enough for four."

"What happened there?" Ronnie cracked, noticing Eli's black eye. "Walk into a door or something?"

"Something like that."

"You seem to have a hitch in your gitalong, too," Rowan commented. "You sure you're okay to ride?"

"I'm good. Thank you."

Rowan and Eli went off to saddle the horses while the girls transferred the contents of canvas totes to saddlebags. Questioning glances were exchanged but comments withheld as Eli led out the spotted gelding and mounted without a lick of trouble. They didn't need rocket science to figure out their new friend and the notoriously cranky gelding had a prior acquaintance. Jack himself no longer rode Cheetah, but occasionally he was annoyed enough to offer the animal to some overconfident self-professed _experienced_ smartass… then busted a gut laughing when the rider went 'arse o'er coffee pot'. He was lucky he hadn't been sued. Allowing a relative stranger to take Cheetah out on the trail was a major conciliation on his part. Eli must have made a good impression. The students certainly were impressed.

They rode for an hour before halting at a bend in the river where the current had carved out a pool deep enough for swimming. Removing bridles, they hobbled their mounts. Eli was taken aback when the others casually skinned down to their birthday suits, but… as they say, _when in Rome_... Tossing modesty to the winds, he joined the others frolicking in the slightly above-freezingwater, where he considered his reproductive future might be in peril.

Eli-_sans_-clothing certainly lived up to Ronnie's expectations of Eli-_avec_-clothes. Afterwards, decorously reclad, they lingered over their picnic before startingthe ride back.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5:_** DUCKY BITES THE BULLET**

_**Saturday, April 17th… 9:00am, Georgetown…**_

Ducky Mallard planned a lazy day. After a leisurely lie-in, in which he rarely indulged, he descended to the kitchen in his pajamas and bare feet without bothering to first shave, brush his teeth or even comb his hair. Mrs Benefield didn't work weekends so he could be as unkempt and roguish as he pleased. In the absence of her critical oversight he made himself a cup of Cuban espresso in the Keurig, liberally sugared and creamed. Popping two raspberry strudels in the toaster and retrieving the _Washington Post_ from the front stoop, he then sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy his guilty pleasures. A lovely woman, Mrs B… so concerned with his health and observant of a senior gentleman's dietary requirements! She would have insisted on heart-healthy oatmeal and low-fat yogurt or grapefruit, which was fine as far as it went, but sometimes one just had to please one's self.

What to do with himself today? Outside was all gloom and a steady rain, so a ramble in the park or a turn on the golf course was out. There was no one he particularly wanted to visit and nothing he especially wanted to see if it involved getting dressed and driving somewhere. He could read for pure pleasure or get around to those monographs he had promised to various medical journals… or… _or…_ he could bite the bullet and get out that little red book. The trunk in which it reposed had been squatting in the library for two weeks now, like some malevolent toad. Mrs B had several times inquired if it could be removed to a storage room or into the basement—somewhere out of the path of the vacuum cleaner, at any rate.

Maybe it would be best to read _all_ the journals in chronological order, beginning with the first one from 1927, and work his way up to 1933.

############

_**A peculiar woman…**_

Ducky had always known his mother was a peculiar woman, slightly out of sync with the post-Edwardian era into which she had been born and the World War I years in which she had passed her childhood. The Twenties did not roar for young Victoria, a fact she bitterly resented, immured from age nine in a female seminary as cloistered as a nunnery. At sixteen she was packed off to a Swiss finishing school for two years to be properly polished for the 1929 débutante season and presentation at Court. At nineteen a marriage was arranged with Joseph Mallard, a young man she didn't particularly favor, much less love.

Although never bruited about in public, it was no great secret that Joseph had married for money (of which he had little) and Victoria (or rather, her family) for the minor title, which conferred an aura of respectability on a family whose wealth had been accumulated through trade. Mallard didn't find it necessary to work much—or at all—and spent as much time as he could in London clubs spending as much as he could of his wife's money. He wasn't much interested in being a father to their only child, either—which suited Victoria just fine as she found him dull and tiresome, irritating to have underfoot. Due to inheritances and trust funds inaccessible to Joseph, she was able to maintain an aristocratic lifestyle both at home on the estate near Edinburgh and in the London townhouse during their respective social seasons.

When not away at boarding school, young Donald enjoyed all the usual and customary comforts of life in a grand manor—household domestics at his beck and call (who spoiled him rotten), grooms for the horses, kennelmen for the hunting dogs, ghillies for shooting, hunting and fishing. He dearly loved his beautiful mother though they weren't often simultaneously in residence. He also cared deeply for his father, who occasionally visited for the sake of appearances.

For all intents and purposes, the senior Mallards lived separate lives in the same premises, whether in Scotland or in England. Victoria rejoiced in cutting a glamorous swath among the _glitterati_ of the Thirties, which earned her more than one mention in the scandal sheets of the time. Joseph was absorbed in his own pursuits—drinking, gambling and consorting with lovelies of the lower orders. Technically, the union endured for twenty-two years before Victoria called it quits when Donald entered University of Edinburgh.

Donald wasn't surprised when his parents divorced, but he _was_ sad… because he did get on with his father despite the man's failings. Joseph's family had written him off as a wastrel. Severing ties with Victoria meant he was pitched off the gravy train and when he fell, it was hard indeed. Somehow he managed to get himself a very pretty younger wife and fathered another child… twenty years younger than Donald. Unfortunately, having been reduced to menial labor as a hotel doorman for his—and their—daily bread, he was unable to keep Lorraine in the style she felt she was owed… so she left him, taking eight-year-old Nicholas with her. Donald was desolate as he doted on his little brother and that was the last he had ever seen of him.

All these things Ducky knew. What he _didn't_ know he was about to find out. As he shuffled toward the library, he tried to convince himself that his mother's letter was no more than an imagined confession scribbled in a fit of senile dementia. In his heart, he knew it wasn't so.

############

_**Highlights from Victoria's earlier journals:**_

**1927…** _Elation. Soon be sprung from durance vile in Midlothian Female Academy (otherwise known as Much Loathed Women's Prison). Heretofore deaf to pleas for relief, Mummy and Daddy have agreed one may withdraw at term end._

**1928…** _Relief short-lived. Positively expiring with despair and utter boredom at Brilliantmont in Lausanne—lifting one's pinky finger correctly one thousand times and walking miles with books on one's head. Convinced there are no attractive young men in Switzerland._

**1929…** _Excited at court presentation but frightened squitless by Their Majesties. Futile resistance to engagement with dullard JM. Parents unrelenting. Threatening to cut one off without a farthing if one does not comply with wishes._

**1930…** _Pouted throughout entire wedding ceremony. Deflowering about as exciting as watching paint dry. JM apparently unaware that husband is meant to spend time with wife. More often gone than here._

**1931…** _New groom in the stables—Anton Romanov. Speaks English very well for a Russian. Personable, witty and prettier than any man has a right to be. Think I am in love._

**1932…** _Romantic weekend with Anton in seedy hotel at seaside resort for commoners. No one in my set would be caught dead here. Boinked ourselves silly. Had no idea sex could be so much fun._

At this point, feeling light-headed and apprehensive, Ducky took a lunch break. Mrs B had left in the fridge one of her savory shepherd's pies which he nuked in the microwave. Mrs B disapproved of reading while eating… but she wasn't here, was she? He put the kettle on to boil and went to fetch the book and an adjustable bookstand he kept hidden in a desk drawer. Something momentous was about to be revealed. Instinctively kenning what that something had to be, he steeled himself to have his mind blown.

**1933…** _Suppose this desperate situation was inevitable. Andy urging divorce from JM so that we can marry. Absolutely out of the question. Abortion is one possibility but think I really want this child. Have already thought of a way out of dilemma…_

Mind well and truly blown, Ducky paused to disgorge his lunch in the kitchen sink as he knew he couldn't make it to the toilet in time. As much as he wanted to stop reading, he couldn't. He had to know what happened next. How had she kept this illicit pregnancy secret from Joseph? Or had he found out and decided to keep _schtum_ rather than have it known to one and all that he had been cuckolded? Ducky went on to read how Victoria had enacted her elaborate plan to hoodwink the world.

############

_**Victoria fools everyone…**_

As soon as she suspected her condition, Victoria hustled down to The City the week before Christmas and extracted her errant mate from his gentlemen's club. Claiming an interest in resurrecting their marriage, she plied him with drink and her personal charms. He happily complied—as often as he was able… but was just as happy when she hied off back to Scotland at the New Year. Victoria and Anton's assignations grew fewer as her belly grew bigger. In February she advised Joseph, in a telegram, of his impending fatherhood, intentionally giving out a false expected delivery date so that he wouldn't inopportunely show up for the blessed event.

When her time came, Victoria checked into a small, exclusive and exceedingly discreet lying-in hospital on the outskirts of Edinburgh. Under the assumed name of Eliza Stewart, she gave birth to identical twins on September 19, 1933. Anton ('my husband Anthony Stewart') was delirious with joy though the mother herself not well pleased. This was a complication she hadn't foreseen. Nor had she anticipated Anton's reaction to her suggestion he find employment elsewhere with alacrity. The fair-haired, blue-eyed infants bore an astonishing resemblance to their biological father and none whatsoever to black-haired, brown-eyed Joseph Mallard. Someone would eventually notice and the jig would be up.

The weather that fall was balmy enough that, during her two weeks of recuperation, Anton came every day to wheel Victoria around the gardens surrounding the hospital… far enough away they could argue without being overheard. Anton was passionate about remaining close to 'his' boys. Not possible, she said. Fine, he said. Then let me have them and tell Joseph the baby was stillborn. Unthinkable, she said. Though he railed and wailed, Victoria was adamant that he had to go away, the sooner the better.

On the last day, Anton came to collect her in the Rolls and the baskets of blue bunting-bundled babes were secured in the rear seat. On the way home, Victoria asked him to stop by a chemist while she made a quick purchase. There were other customers ahead of her and the transaction took longer than expected. When she returned to the auto, Anton had vanished and only one basket remained—he had achieved at least half of his heart's desire. Victoria couldn't very well report the abduction to the authorities and Anton Romanov with his as-yet unnamed son were never seen again. She drove herself home with the one baby, explaining his fair coloring as having been inherited from her side of the family. Joseph never knew or—more likely—never noticed.

Ducky stopped reading then. He knew the rest of story… aside from the missing infant and whatever had become of him. Suddenly feeling lost and directionless, he meandered back to bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling and mulling over what conscience _urged_ him to do versus what prudence demanded he should _not_ do. Lines from a poem in Lewis Carroll's Alice adventures came to mind:

"_You are old, Father William," the young man said. "And your hair has become very white;_

_And yet you incessantly stand on your head—Do you think, at your age, it is right?"_

Well, his hair might not be white yet, but he had certainly been stood on his head and then some.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6:_** JUST A LITTLE FAVOR FOR A FRIEND**

_**Sunday, April 18th… Goat Rock…**_

Eli learned that his friends rode every weekend when weather permitted, and was pleased to be accepted into their company. By the end of the week, they had become an acknowledged foursome and Ronnie had achieved her goal—albeit in Eli's camper rather than her dorm room. He decided to stay on for a while.

This Sunday morning found them gathered for breakfast at the coffee shop before heading out on the trail. Eli listened in as the others discussed preparations for their upcoming graduation in June. Although they had been practicing for some time, proper rehearsals wouldn't get underway for another two weeks.

Rowan's phone buzzed with an incoming text message. He studied the screen with a frown and glumly typed in his reply.

"Bad news, guys... my granddad's in the hospital. I have to go home."

"How long will you be gone, Row?" Pallas said, wisely not allowing her disappointment to surface.

"I don't know, babe. Can't be helped… I have to go… and stay as long as I'm needed."

"I understand."

There was a scramble to rearrange plans. Rowan called the airport in Whitefish to make a reservation, then took the girls back to Caruso Hall where he hastily packed. On the way out of town he picked up Eli, who rode with him to the airport in order to bring the Jeep back to Goat Rock.

"I need a really big favor, Eli…" Row began tentatively. "But you're under no obligation."

"Shoot…"

"You know we've been practicing every day for our graduation recital. I've been accompanying Pallas on piano and Misha _was_ playing for Ronnie…"

"I'd forgot he knew piano," Eli mused. "I recall him mentioning that although I've never heard him play."

"Actually, he's pretty good. Since he left I've been doing for Ronnie as well... and now…"

"You want me to fill in, is that it?"

"Only for a couple of weeks unless I get back earlier. I told the girls I'd ask you. Can you sight read?"

"I can. What kind of music are we talking here?"

"Classical and opera... maybe some show tunes."

"I can probably manage."

"The other thing is, I was going to team up with both girls for their duets. Do you sing, too?"

"I can carry a tune but not _that_ well."

"Good enough to give 'em time to come up with other partners if I'm not back in time for the recital itself?"

"I'll give it a go."

"Great! The girls will work out a session time that's convenient for you."

"I'm usually done with the horses by noon, so any time after that is convenient. Will being gone any length of time this close to graduation affect your coursework?"

"Pretty sure I can make it up, depending on how soon I can cut loose."

"What about if you end up missing rehearsals and the recital?"

"No problem. I'm only doing practice sessions. One of the professors'll be the accompanist for graduation. This recital is just for voice students, not musicians."

"You're not a music student?"

"Not as such, although I do have to master piano. I'm majoring in music _education_, not performance. Teaching isn't my long-term goal, but music education was the only option available in order to get the grant."

"What _is_ your career choice, then?"

"After I complete my commitment to the grantors, I'm aiming for a masters in bioethics and behavioral theory. Thought about going for cultural anthropology but don't know I've got the chops for that. What were your majors?" Rowan asked, assuming Eli was postgraduate in _something_.

"Nothing at the moment," the other admitted ruefully. "I was in the wrong queue when the brains were handed out in my family."

"I guess I should have asked first if you've got the time to hang around."

"There's no place I have to be anytime soon," Eli responded, adroitly deflecting the question.


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7:_** DUCKY TAKES A CHANCE**

_**Saturday, April 24**__**th**__**… 8:30am, Georgetown…**_

On this grey morning, with funereal church bells tolling mournfully in the rain-muffled distance, Doctor Donald Mallard took elaborate care with his ablutions. Today he had a clear head, a purpose, and a grim determination to throw caution to the winds. Dressing casually in a heavy sweatshirt and corduroy trousers, he pulled on thick socks and shoved his feet into his favorite run-down-at-the-heels, fleece-lined doeskin moccasins (which Mrs B had surreptitiously and unsuccessfully attempted to hide among Goodwill donations). Marching to the kitchen, he prepared a satisfying—if not entirely healthy—three-egg cheese omelette with diced ham, mushrooms, tomato and onions, sautéed in butter and topped with a dollop of sour cream. Without a shred of remorse he added to the menu buttered toast with Marmite, orange juice and an entire pot of coffee, extra stout (Mrs B would be keening and flinging her apron over her head). He consumed the cholesterol-laden, calorie-ridden meal down to the last morsel while making notes on a ruled legal pad (technically, _not_ reading).

Dispensing the coffee into an insulated carafe, he added substantial amounts of cream and sugar, and snagged his favorite mug from the cupboard—plain white china diner quality with a chip in the rim (rescued from the bin where Mrs B had tried to dispose of it). Carrying the carafe and mug to his study, he settled his behind in the worn office chair at his equally well-used desk. Darn! Forgot the notepad. Had to go back to get it.

And then it was on to the first order of business… a telephone call to the Old Country. As it was ten in the morning here, it was three in the afternoon there at the home of his boyhood friend, George Atherton. He had to look up the exchange in an ancient Fil-O-Fax, unsure if it were even still in service. Oddly enough, George himself answered on the fourth ring. Ducky could remember a time when one never answered one's own phone—a servant always did that, and then you would have to hang on the line until the phonee could be located, only to be informed that His Lordship or Her Ladyship was unavailable or not to be disturbed. How times had changed!

When Donald introduced himself, Atherton was all agog with enthusiasm. Still the same old Geordie—as excitable as a puppy. They exchanged the usual polite banter—_How are you? How long has it been? How is the family? What have you been doing with yourself these past fifteen years?_ At decent length, Ducky was able to get to the reason for this blast from their past.

"I have a great favor to ask of you, Geordie. How well do you know the current occupants of my old home?"

"Quite well, as it happens. Doris and Elsie are old school chums—Paudge and Elsinore Hampton, you may recall. At any rate, they bought your ancestral pile from the Bealls about three years ago and have been doing it up… complete interior renovation. Er… why do you ask?"

Ducky had written out his cover story and referred to it as he told a little white one. "A young friend of mine, second generation Russian émigré, is researching his roots. Tracing an ancestor who'd gone up to Scotland and might have worked for my parents in the early thirties. In the stables, I believe."

"Good Lord, old man. That's a long stretch back…"

"Yes, isn't it. Anyway, if he did, there'd have been a record in the estate ledgers. My question is, would you know or could you ask if those ledgers still exist? You see, when I moved Mother here and put the manse up for sale, I sorted out which books I wanted to keep, crated up the rest and had the removal men take them up to the attic boxrooms on the off chance they might be of interest to the new owner. You know the sort… _nouveau riche_ fellow who thinks displaying a massive collection will fool others into believing he's well-read."

"I do indeed." They both chuckled. "What's that to do with your ledgers?" George asked.

"The shipping manifest was a crate short when our goods arrived. I never did find them and that missing crate is the only place they could be."

"Why on earth would you want keep those dusty old relics, Ducky?"

"Oh… I don't know. Nostalgia, perhaps? An historical or genealogical society might want them? You say the Hamptons have been remodeling… do you know if they've emptied the clutter in the attic? Or if the Bealls did?"

"My dear fellow, when Frank Beall found what it would cost to modernize the place, he couldn't offload it fast enough. Probably never even looked in the attic. The Hamptons, on the other hand, have more filthy lucre than Croesus. They snapped it up and have been pouring money into it ever since. A million so far, according to Elsie."

"Yes… but George… the attic?"

"These things take time, you know. Top-drawer restoration craftsmen are thin on the ground these days, and most of them are so long in the tooth they creep at a snail's pace. They also command top wages but worth every penny, according to Paudgie. They've completed the main floor and part of the second, I believe. At the rate they're progressing they should reach the attic by 2020."

"Will you ask Hampton about the crate, then?"

"Yes, of course. Not a problem. In fact, we're dining with them on Wednesday. I'll ask him to take me up to the attic and we'll have a recce."

"Wonderful. Do you have something to write with? I'll give you the specifications and shipping number stenciled on the crate."

They chatted for a few minutes before ringing off. _That's done. We'll just have to see what comes of it, won't we? _He shook his head at what he'd just said to himself. _Why did I say _we_ when it's just _me_, unless there's a cat in the house of which I'm unaware. There's a good idea… I should have a kitty._

On the notepad by his elbow he jotted down,_ Ask Mrs B re pussy. _Hastily scribbling out that last word, he substituted _'cat.'_.


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8:_** BRINGING IN THE RINGER**

_**Monday, April 26th… 10:00am, Glacier Institute, Rehearsal Hall B…**_

Twelve students of the school of music and performing arts huddled together in shocked silence—along with the entire chamber orchestra—as Professor Joseph Eddings, concertmaster and conductor, informed them of the calamity that had just befallen them: the pianist who was to have served as accompanist during rehearsals and the performance had only that morning been involved in a multi-vehicle automobile accident and was not expected to survive. The two other faculty members of the department of piano pedagogy were out of the country attending a seminar in Japan, and were not scheduled to return until July. And while there were other competent pianists on staff and among the student body, none had rehearsed with this particular group of graduates and none of them knew _all_ the pieces to be performed.

"Does this mean the graduation program's cancelled?" a timid voice inquired.

"Let's not jump the gun here, guys and gals," Eddings replied. "Dean Waterford called an emergency meeting of department heads and we determined it was too late to cancel. We have too many folks—family and guests—who've gone to considerable expense and effort to be here. Not to mention talent scouts… at least four that we know of and probably others who'll be here incognito. The college itself has a considerable investment in the event—not only in the performance but the festivities surrounding it. We're also taking into consideration the financial welfare of the townspeople whose businesses would be severely impacted by cancellation at this late date." The man could at times be drearily pedantic.

"But what are we going to do?" another student wailed amidst agitated mutterings. "We've only got a month to prepare!"

"We improvise… and muddle through best we can under the circumstances." Eddings tried to inject optimism into the oil he was futilely attempting to pour on roiled waters. "First of all, we'll go over the music selections and see if we can match up singers and orchestra with potential accompanists."

"Good luck with that!" someone else spoke up scornfully.

Eddings ignored the comment. "In the meantime, all piano students have been contacted and ordered to report here immediately. One way or another we begin rehearsals tomorrow at noon sharp."

"Anyone know the lyrics to _Chopsticks_?" some other wag snorted as confused scholars of the pianoforte began trickling into the hall.

############

_**11:00am, Rehearsal Hall B and Studio C…**_

Eddings had to face the fact that they were woefully short of suitably experienced pianists… or _any_ pianist who could accommodate all twelve recitalists as well as the orchestra. The singers, with rabid backing from the musicians, steadfastly resisted consideration of replacement pieces, united in their belief that introducing unrehearsed music and lyrics on such short notice could only lead to disaster. Throwing up his hands in total exasperation, Eddings shouted, "If you all could manage to cooperate for just five minutes we could figure a way out of this damned mess!"

In the stunned lull that followed, two of the performers wormed their way to the forefront, interrupting Eddings in mid-meltdown. "May we have a word, sir? In private?" the shorter one, a blonde with a pixie haircut murmured in his ear. "We've thought of someone we believe could do it," the taller brunette girl advised.

Recognizing both young women as promising future divas on whom his mistress, voice coach Sophia Topogigio, had lately been keeping a close eye, he snatched each by an elbow and hustled them into an adjacent practice studio. "Who is this person?" he demanded rudely of the blonde, whose first name he vaguely recalled as something rather pretentiously on the order of Greek mythology.

The brunette spoke up. "Not anyone you know, Doctor Joe… not even a student. He's… um… a visitor."

"Then what makes you think he could be of any use to us? How could he possibly learn all the music in just four weeks?"

The girls looked at each other. It was a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't moment. College policy prohibited use of facilities and/or equipment by unaffiliated personnel except as authorized by academic administrators, department heads or the dean himself. By coming forth with their shared admission—and depending on how things turned out—they would either be lauded as saviors or landed in suspension.

As the girls submitted their brief and highly-edited explanation, Eddings had the good sense to check any rebukes concerning flagrant disregard of rules. Practice studios were in use any hour of the day or night, whenever a music or voice student with a heavy course load could weasel an hour or two between or after class. Singers preferred practicing with regular partner-accompanists—other music students—for the duration of the term, and they didn't like to share. These two young women—having temporarily lost theirs—had resorted to an unaffiliated and certainly unauthorized accompanist for the past week.

Eddings suddenly remembered both their names. "Miss Ross, Miss Slate… _desperatus sumus!_ I don't care if the fellow's a one-eyed, one-horned flying purple people eater… fetch him here as soon as possible!"

Returning to the rehearsal hall, Eddings dismissed the assembly until the following Monday, with assurances he would have something worked out by then. At least, he was praying he would. If nothing else, it might be necessary to recall those two faculty members currently enjoying Japanese hospitality.

############

_**12:00 noon, Eli's camper…**_

"No. No way, no how." Eli had been napping, sprawled face-down on the sofa, until being awakened by a furious pounding on the door. The girls burst in rather than waiting to be admitted.

"Oh, come on, Eeeeeli. We need you," Ronnie implored, squashing her paramour as she bounced on his back.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Help us, Obi Wan Romani. You're our only hope," Pallas wheedled, on her knees and breathing in his ear.

"Very funny but still no. Get off, Ron… you're killing my kidneys."

"Pretty please with sugar sprinkles?" In her best Jessica Rabbit imitation, Ronnie tossed her hair and parodied one of those absurd glamour poses with pooched-together lips that looked like a cat's anus. "I'll sleep with you." She batted her eyelashes provocatively.

"You're already sleeping with me."

"Oh yeah… well… _she'll_ sleep with you, too."

"Will not!" Pallas squeaked in indignation, raking fingers through her cropped hair. "Seriously… we're in big trouble and you already know all the selections."

"Only because you wanted to learn them all for the fun of it."

Ronnie poked him in the side. "You promised Rowan you'd take care of us."

"Quit that," he grunted. "I said I'd help you practice. I didn't agree to play for an audience."

"It's just _rehearsals_, Eli, with just the chamber orchestra," Pallas coaxed. "There _is_ no audience… well, except for the voice coaches and some teachers. You're positively brilliant. You know you are. They'll love you!"

He finally rolled over, pushing Ronnie off and laughing. "Yeah, yeah, yeah… I'm an incomparable virtuoso, a superb horseman, a skilled lover _and_ incredibly good-looking in the bargain… but flattery won't get you anywhere."

But after ten minutes more of skillfully applied feminine wiles, it did. Their victim's defenses at last crumbled.

"Okay… I'll do it… but on certain conditions. And you'll have to find me something to wear." Sitting up, he gestured around the interior of his domain. "All I've got are jeans and tees and a couple of flannel shirts."

"Don't worry," Pallas stated. "We'll get you fixed up in time for rehearsals."

"I need a shower."

"Don't have time for that. You need to come right now."

############

_**12:45pm, Studio F…**_

When Pallas called ahead to alert Eddings they were bringing in their prize, he requested they enter through a maintenance door and meet him in the studio farthest from the rehearsal hall, where they were least likely to be disturbed. He tried to allay his nervousness by reminding himself that as the man evidently had been already substituting for the girls' regular accompanist, he must be a halfway decent pianist… but good enough to play with an orchestra, to a full house? Surely these intelligent, dedicated students wouldn't risk jeopardizing their academic standings and future careers by dragging in some smarmy lounge lizard they'd picked up in a bar in Whitefish. Still…

At first sight, the proposed solution to Eddings' dilemma caused his blood pressure to soar. Perhaps the girls' judgment wasn't quite as sound as he'd hoped. This specimen appeared to have been plucked from a grunge band… or was it garage band? Eddings wasn't conversant with what passed for popular music these days. Did current rock and roll ensembles even include keyboards? Was it even still called rock and roll? The purported pianist was bearded, with shoulder-length hair resembling the southern aspect of a northbound Afghan hound—a classicist's nightmare in a gray hoodie and well-worn jeans with sneakers. Also, indelicately scented with the unmistakable aroma of horse.

Ere introductions were made and handshakes exchanged, Eddings immediately caught on that in this case appearances were indeed deceiving. The young man had a firm, dry grip and a clear eye. His even white teeth were all present and accounted for. His enunciation and cultured, mildly-accented speech marked him as someone from a middle to upper class family, and his respectful demeanor earned him immediate brownie points.

The professor took a chair and gestured for the others to sit. "I understand you've been helping these young ladies with their routines."

"Yes, sir," Eli said, taking the bench.

"Don't recall having seen you around, though…"

"I've been keeping a low profile. I don't want trouble for the school or these women."

"Same goes for me." Eddings eyes strayed to the door to ascertain it was closed and locked. The room and the door itself were sound-proofed. "Sorry to be so blunt, but we're in a colossal bind here. To be perfectly honest, we're in deep shit. Rehearsal was supposed to start today but… I suppose you heard..."

"Yeah. They told me."

"I've postponed it until next Monday but we really can't delay any longer than that. There's no time for a proper audition or even a background check of your _bona fides_. All I can say is that if you live up to your reputation, we'll be pulling off the mother of all miracles. Do you think you can… uh…?"

Eli merely shrugged and nodded his head toward the stack of scores on a small desk at Eddings' elbow. "Is that all of it?"

"Yes. Each singer will do two pieces—one solo and one duet. That's twenty-four compositions. Miss Ross assures me that you—and they—have rehearsed every one… not just theirs. Is this correct?"

"Yes, sir. They wanted to and I needed the practice." Eli held up a hand to forestall Eddings handing over the sheet music. "If you'll just tell me the titles, I'll do a couple bars or movements of each."

The professor pondered if this disheveled young man was merely a blowhard overconfident of his own ability… or some sort of savant sent by the angels in the School of Music's hour of need. Either way, he was about to find out.

"Will you be able to work with the other ten vocalists on the program?"

"I imagine so."

"And you could be ready by next Monday?"

"I'm ready now, sir."

By the end of the abbreviated mini-recital, a mightily impressed Eddings was speechless with relief and the girls were high-fiving each other with ear-to-ear grins. They had their _first_ miracle. Now all he had to do was appeal to the dean to recall those two music professors from Japan early enough for the graduation performance.

############

_**The Russian in the woodpile…**_

Professor Eddings gulped, then ventured hesitantly, "Miss Ross… does one dare hope you and Miss Slate can effect some sort of… er… transformation with our young man's… um… appearance?" quickly adding, "With his approval, naturally… not that there's anything wrong with him now… but…"

"The prof has a point," Pallas said, cocking her head at Eli. "Don't mind my saying, you _could_ use a good currying. Whatcha think, Ronnie? Can we get 'im polished up in time for the dog and pony show?"

"A little on the rough side but I imagine we can tart him up enough to pass muster."

Eli's amusement at the older man's discomfiture quickly evaporated. "Hey… wait a minute. What exactly do you two have in mind?"

"Don't worry. We're not contemplating plastic surgery," Pallas assured him, patting him on the arm. "But look… we can't do anything for the next couple of days. Ronnie and I have a ton of tests midweek and we've _got_ to put in some study time."

"What about practice?"

"Not even. And we need a break anyway, don't we, Ronnie? How about you come back Friday… say around three? We'll be done with tests by then."

"Works for me."

"Call first with an ETA so one of us can meet you in the parking lot."

Having caught the faint but nevertheless detectible accent, Eddings nervously cleared his throat. "I… er… I don't believe I caught your full name."

"Elijah Roman, my family call me Eli. My parents shortened the family name from Romanov."

"Oh… you're… um… Russian?"

"I _was_ Russian. When the union disbanded in 1991, I became Ukrainian. Just as Muslims born in India before 1947 became Pakistani when that state was created."

"Oh… well… that's all right, then." Eddings wasn't entirely sure that it was but tried to convince himself otherwise. "You speak English very well."

"I should hope so. My mother's American."

Pallas interrupted. "Eli, you take the Jeep back to your place and we'll see you Friday."

"Okay. Thanks."

Parting company with the trio, Professor Eddings was assailed with an entirely new set of anxieties... _A Russian non-student _here_, on my campus? A Russian concert-class pianist _here_, in the third least densely populated state in the union with only seven people per square mile? Is he one of those defectors like Nureyev or Baryshnikov? What if he's a Communist infiltrator? A spy? A terrorist? What if the men in dark suits, Rockports and Ray-Bans come around asking questions? What should I say? The answer: nothing… because I really need this pianist._


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter 9:_** THE PHANTOM OF THE DORM ROOM**

_**Friday, April 30th… 1:00pm, Ronnie's dorm room…**_

"Welcome to Ross & Slate's Finest Kind Beauty and Man-Grooming Salon," Ronnie announced cheerfully as Pallas ushered an apprehensive Eli through the door. The pair then circled their subject like hyenas eyeing their next meal.

"First of all… how attached are you to that beard?" Pallas queried.

"Not particularly." Eli fingered his hirsute face. "I mean, I don't usually wear one but… you know… on the road and all…"

"Then you won't mind giving it up?"

"Not at all."

Pallas handed him a cordless trimmer and pointed toward the bathroom.

"There's some new razors in the drawer," Ronnie added. "And a can of shave cream in the cabinet underneath."

When Eli reappeared, the girls were caught by surprise at the previously hidden features his defoliated visage presented—a strong jaw with a faint chin indentation, an uneven smile that curved up at one corner and a hint of dimples like quotation marks on either side of his mouth. Set wide over a strong Grecian nose, his prominent heavy-lidded eyes seemed bigger and even deeper blue.

"Whoa! What are you… like fourteen or something? Better throw 'im back, Ronnie—he's under limit."

When Ronnie didn't respond immediately, Pallas glanced at her friend and found her observing Eli with an odd expression.

"Ron? Something the matter?"

"What? Oh… nothing… he just… never mind…"

Pallas didn't pursue it. Her attention was already on Eli's sandy locks and how to deal with them. Being part Native American, Rowan often let his coarse straight hair go its own way past his shoulders. When it came time for a trim at school, Pallas usually did the honors, so—claiming more experience with barbering—she prepared to do battle with shears and comb. Ronnie had rolled her desk chair to the center of the room, where Eli now sat, shirtless with a towel secured around his neck with a safety pin.

Eli's leonine mane was just as abundant and almost as straight as Rowan's but silky and tended to curl towards the nape, which made it more difficult to cut evenly. Eventually Pallas succeeded in layering it over his ears and at the neckline while leaving it longish at the crown. The bangs were there to stay—absolutely would not lay in another direction. But she did get them out of his eyes, which yielded another surprise—for a man, he had beautifully arched eyebrows.

Pallas held up the mirror. "Enough… or shorter?"

"It's fine. I like it. Been a while since it's been this short, though." _And now I look just like my granddad… when he was young…_

############

_**The apparition…**_

At the same time they both realized Ronnie had taken a step backward and was staring at him as if he were some spectral manifestation that had just appeared in her dorm room. She had folded her arms together tightly, clutching both elbows.

"_Now_ what's wrong?" Pallas grumbled, unpinning the towel from around Eli's neck. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"Bloody hell," the girl said slowly. "You're _him_…"She'd been in the country long enough that she rarely resorted to Britishisms, having honed her California accent to perfection. Most folks didn't realize she wasn't American.

"Him _who?"_

"The man in the photograph," Ronnie whispered in a monotone.

"_What _photograph? We don't need cryptic commentary, girlfriend," Pallas snapped. "If you've got something on your mind, spit it out so we can get on with what we need to do."

Ronnie shivered and blinked several times, regaining her composure. "Not important. I'll tell you later."

"Fine. Now the next thing…"

Eli spoke then. "No… wait. I'd like to hear more about this photograph."

Pallas noted that the beautifully arched eyebrows had beetled down to an intimidating glower. She was sure he wasn't doing it on purpose. Maybe that was just his puzzled look. In any case, his intervention was ill-timed and she said so.

"If she's got a problem with me, best we get it ironed out now, don't you think?" The scowl was swiftly replaced with an expression of amenable encouragement.

Pallas flapped her hands in exasperation. "Whatever. You two get on with it. Don't mind me." She grabbed a broom and began sweeping together the blond clippings.

Drawing Ronnie over to the bed and sitting next to her, Eli captured one of her hands. He spoke softly, hypnotically, endeavoring to put her at ease. "Look, I'm pretty sure I'm flesh and blood… not an apparition. If you were sleeping with a ghost, wouldn't you have known by now?"

That drew a pallid smile but no comment.

"Take a deep breath. Close your eyes. Tell me what you see in your mind's eye. Take your time."

############

_**The photograph…**_

In Veronica Slate's grandparents' house in England, on the wall behind her granddad's desk, there hung a framed color photograph of four people… three men in dark business suits and one woman in an eye-poppingly short psychedelic dress with go-go boots and Big Hair. One of the men had his arm around the woman's waist. "My grandparents—April and Mark—back in 1966 before they… uh… got together." Of the others, one man was dark-haired and one a striking blond.

"And I remind you of one of them?"

Ronnie shook her head, opening her eyes to peer at him in wonderment. "Not just remind… you could _be_ him—the blond one, stepped out of the picture right into this room. Hairstyle and everything. Except I can't envision you in a suit and tie."

A frisson of anxiety rippled up Eli's spine.

Pallas rolled her eyes impatiently. "Now that we've got _that_ cleared up…"

Eli gave her the stinkeye. "Do you _mind?_ We're not done yet." He turned back to Ronnie. "Do you remember what the photo's about? The occasion for it?"

"Oh yes… Granddad told me. They all worked together back during the Cold War and they'd just got commendations for a successful mission, or something like that. I was never too clear on what it was they did or who they worked for but I've always been under the impression they were, like, secret agents of some sort?"

"Oh, _please!_" Another eye roll from Pallas, earning a frown from Ronnie and a warning glance from Eli.

"Go on. What else do you remember?" he continued, as blandly as he could manage in the face of this unsettling turn of events.

"Not much. I believe Granddad said the dark-haired guy was American but the blond was Russian… although that hardly seems likely, considering the Berlin Wall and everything."

"Did he ever mention their names?"

"Might've done but I don't remember. I could ask Grandad or Gram, if you like. They'll both be here for the shindig. They weren't actually married. Granddad married someone else and Gram never did. She's… um… a playgirl, I guess you could call it."

"For heaven's sake!" Pallas exclaimed crossly. "Can you get on with it, already?"

As gentle as he had been with Ronnie, he was the opposite with her counterpart, growling _"Zamovkny!"—_apparently unaware he'd lapsed into what she assumed was his native tongue.

Pallas didn't need language skills to understand she had just been told to shut up. "Well excuuuuuuse me!"

"Why are you asking all these questions, Eli?" Ronnie asked.

Time to cultivate a practical mindset. Try to, anyway. "You do understand, don't you… _that_ man's got to be in his seventies or eighties and obviously I'm not?"

"Yes… and I'm sorry. It was just so… _real_. I don't know what came over me."

"It's okay." Letting go of Ronnie's hand, he stood up stiffly. "I should probably go."

"_Now_ are we done?" Pallas sighed theatrically.

"I said I'm sorry!" Ronnie pleaded.

Pallas was about to suggest Eli have dinner with them in the cafeteria, then stay the night in the dorm… either with Ronnie or in Rowan's room, to which she had a key card, but something in his face stopped her. "Will you come get us in the morning?"

"Morning?"

"Breakfast? Riding? It _is_ Saturday…"

"Oh… right… tomorrow, around nine?"

"We'll be ready…"

############

_**Later that evening…**_

Parking the Jeep and unlocking the door to the camper, Eli threw the keys on the counter and himself on the bunk, fully clothed. His mind darted in all directions, trying to find rhyme or reason to the conundrum that had just fallen onto his head. He _knew_ that photograph… what it meant and the identity of the four subjects. _What the hell is happening here? How much more of myself can I afford to share?_

He hadn't meant to reveal his real name to anyone. That was just inviting trouble. He was fairly sure he'd eluded any followers after clearing customs in New York and disappearing into the throngs of travelers coming and going. Days later, he'd boarded a flight to Denver, where he'd paid cash for a used camper van and headed north. Hadn't had to produce any identification since. He'd have to be incredibly unlucky to be recognized in this remote locale… _but it could happen… _which was why one of his conditions had been that he'd be introduced by an alias. Eddings didn't have a problem with that.

############

_**The next morning…**_

According to Pallas the most popular mode of men's daywear on campus was sneakers, jeans and a standard permapress cotton button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Thankful he'd already done his laundry, Eli climbed into his least disreputable jeans and located his least scuzzy pair of sneakers before donning a pale blue-and-gray checked shirt Pallas had purloined from Rowan's room. Arriving at Rehearsal Hall B with thirty minutes to spare, he was relieved to find the other performers comparably attired and supremely incurious about their stand-in pianist. Professor Eddings announced he'd found a suitable replacement in transfer student 'Earnest Bunbury' and that was good enough for them.

Eli had learned that, in order to avoid being saddled with inferior instruments, donations of actual pianos were not accepted by the institute. Thus, all pianos employed in the music school had been selected by committee, which favored Steinway, and acquired through alumni endowments. The one they'd used for practice had been impressive enough—a Model M studio baby grand. The one in the rehearsal hall was a salon grand Model A—the largest one Eli'd ever played. He'd all but drooled when Ronnie took him into the auditorium and lifted the dust cover on the magnificent concert grand on the stage. The Steinway Model D, with its starting price upwards of $150,000, was light years above the Baldwin baby grand he used at home. It was like comparing a Lamborghini to a Ford Fiesta. His fingers itched to caress its keys… but of course that was never going to happen… surely an _experienced_ concert pianist would be arranged in time for the graduation recital.

The first half of the program showcased the soloists and the second half the duets. As a coloratura soprano, Pallas had chosen for her solo the Strauss waltz _Voices of Spring_, while Ronnie—a husky mezzo soprano—had settled on _Habanera_ from Bizet's opera _Carmen_. Rowan had been keeping in contact with Pallas via text messages. Without going into details, he reported that his family was insisting on his continuing presence until his grandfather was out of the woods and the emergency resolved. In view of his—or any other male vocalist's—unavailability for the duets, the girls had fallen back on a piece for two female voices—_The Flower Duet_ from Delibes' opera _Lakmé_. The substitution had been approved by Eddings so there were only twenty-three scores fanned out on a side table within easy reach of the page-turner.

Not all the selections were classical—students aiming for Broadway rather than opera had gone for mainstream Rogers & Hammerstein or Lerner & Lowe, with a few contemporary numbers by Andrew Lloyd Webber. Rehearsal went as well as could be expected, aside from a few bumps and false starts, and would resume on Wednesday. Except for weekends off to recharge, rehearsals would be held three days a week. In between, Professor Eddings decreed… _Practice! Practice! Practice!_


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter 10:_** GETTING THERE FROM HERE**

_**Saturday, May 15th… enroute from Zurich to San Francisco…**_

As the old country song goes, '_You can't get there from here.'_ Well, you _could_ but it was convoluted and time-consuming, especially if traveling from a remote Swiss village to the nearest international airport, then flying across the Atlantic Ocean and the width of the North American continent. The travelers were in for a _very_ long day… and night.

At the crack of dawn, the housekeeper drove Herr Doktor Elijah and Frau Lisa Bauer down to the dock at Caviano, where they caught the hydrofoil to Locarno and a taxi to the railway station. The 136-kilometer train ride from Locarno to Zurich lasted a little over two hours. Another taxi delivered them to Zurich International Airport, where clearing security took a little less than two more hours.

Boarding on Swiss International Airlines was to commence thirty minutes before the scheduled departure time. Having yet another hour to wait, the Bauers enjoyed complimentary champagne and brunch in the Swiss First lounge. By liftoff they were settled in for the twelve hours and thirty minutes it would take to transit 9,364 miles to the City by the Bay. The Boeing wide-bodied jet was the newest and largest in the Swiss fleet, offering state-of-the-art technology and amenities rivaling a five-star hotel.

As the Bauers were getting on in years, long-haul flights took their toll on old bones, so why forego optimum comfort when they could easily afford the best? In their adjacent center-aisle seat-suites in first class, Frau Bauer investigated the contents of the complimentary comfort kits. Attractive and vivacious attendants flitted throughout the cabin, distributing menus and champagne or any other beverage as desired.

Having racked up many thousands of miles flying cattle class in his younger days, Doktor Bauer felt entitled to enjoy first class luxury. Still, the ex-Soviet citizen winced at this profligate display of Western decadence. Evidently there were still a few kernels of communistic idealism lurking about in his subconscious despite his having gone over to the Dark Side decades ago.

Three hours into the flight, the first of five courses appeared with the attendants efficiently and expeditiously ensuring the most pleasurable dining experience possible.

Under the disapproving eye of his wife, the doctor demolished with gusto his loaded baked potato, buttered creamed corn and gravy-smothered roast beef. For years she'd been warning that his high-cholesterol food preferences would get him in the end. Considering that in his wartime childhood he had subsisted for weeks on nothing more than watery potato and cabbage soup, he should have despised both, but he loved potatoes in any way, shape or form. Cabbage, not so much. The doctor turned up his nose at his wife's salad, braised lamb chops and steamed asparagus. He loathed asparagus and wouldn't eat lamb unless he was literally starving—averring he would just as soon munch a candle.

To Frau Bauer's ongoing annoyance, her husband could chow down like a stevedore, never gaining a kilo, while for her fending off the avoirdupois had been a lifelong struggle. At least he exercised restraint by foregoing dessert—digestive systems being not as forgiving as they used to be.

After the attendant floated by with wet wipes and warmed hand towels and taken their orders for decaf coffee, Frau Bauer called up a movie she'd been wanting to see but her husband didn't. He borrowed her MP3 player to listen to Sidney Bechet. He did his best thinking to music… and thinking led to reminiscing…

############

_**Reflections above the clouds…**_

More often these days, the doctor's reflections turned to his discarded life… and family: those they'd soon be joining, those he'd lost and most likely would never see again, and those he'd never had the chance to meet in the first place…

In 1951, at eighteen, Illya Nicoleyvich Kuryakin entered into an inadvisable marriage with a girl he hardly knew—but he'd got her pregnant and wanted to do the right thing. The powers that were didn't care about any of that—national service came first and he'd spent the next four years serving in the Soviet navy. The couple's first son arrived in 1952 and the second one in 1954—on both occasions he was away at sea.

At the conclusion of his official military service, Illya found himself summarily attached to the state security apparatus—the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti. The KGB hierarchy early on recognized his exceptional potential as a future espionage operative and arranged for him to attend the University of Georgia in Tbilisi. Nadia remained in Kiev with two-year-old Ivan and newborn Sergei.

Then it was off to the Sorbonne in Paris for his master's degree followed by a stint at the University of Cambridge in England. It was during that latter period that he was approached by his superiors with the idea of working for an independent global agency—the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement. That is, Illya was _informed_ that was the next rung on his career ladder whether or not he wanted it.

Meanwhile, Illya'd become a stranger to his sons and an unwelcome hindrance to Nadia's own aspirations. Told he would be residing in England from then on was the last straw for his wife. She divorced him, changed her name—and the boys'—and disappeared. He was strongly advised by his handlers to accept the situation with a stiff upper lip, which of course he did—as a good Soviet citizen should.

1959 through 1961 were busy years for Illya. Having been seconded to the agency with the improbable acronym of UNCLE, he attended their survival school during a hiatus from university, interned with their London headquarters, and still managed to obtain his doctorate. In 1962 at age twenty-nine, upon becoming a full-fledged agent, he was transferred to New York and subsequently paired with the man who would become his partner—and best friend—for the next decade. Unfortunately, his nationality engendered much speculation among the New York crew and more than a little dislike, suspicion and outright hostility. It was then he adopted the enigmatic persona that became his trademark.

In 1964, while temporarily recalled to the Soviet navy, Illya made a rare egregious error in judgment by engaging in a torrid weeklong affair with a shore-based medical officer. Doctor Galina Pavlichenko had no desire to raise an unintended child. Promptly upon parturition, she had contacted the father through channels with the ultimatum that he either take the baby or she would be put up for adoption. Having already lost two children and not about to abandon another one, Illya had taken leave to go fetch her. Installed with a nursemaid in the spacious Park Avenue apartment Illya could by then afford to maintain, Ekaterina Kuryakin saw her daddy every day when he wasn't away on a mission. Only his partner and their boss knew the circumstances.

Ekaterina had been seven years old when her father left UNCLE in 1972 and embarked on his new career in the world of _haute couture_. His housekeeper/nanny usually delivered the child to school and retrieved her afterwards. Once Illya had established a routine, he had Mrs O'Brien bring his daughter to House of Vanya twice a week. This not only broadened Ekaterina's horizons but afforded her caretaker time to accomplish household shopping in peace. For her part, the girl was happy to spend hours with her father in this wonderful place of exotic colors and textures, where the staff fawned over her. The designers vied with each other in coming up with ideas for age-appropriate frocks and guided her to fabric selections. The seamstresses competed for the honor of producing the child's clothes. Ekaterina Kuryakin was the best-dressed girl in her school, to the envy of her peers.

Ekaterina's third favorite person, after her daddy and Nanny Maureen, was Elise Landesmann, the cool brunette Austrian who shepherded the flock of runway models at House of Vanya. As second in command, Elise worked hand in glove with Illya, ensuring the company's continuing success and winning the heart and mind of his daughter in the process. Elise became Ekaterina's heroine, a fact not lost on Illya. When, inevitably, Illya and Elise became a couple, the eight-year-old was thrilled to bits. And when they married, she was delighted beyond measure… even more so when presented with sister Marichka in 1974 and brother Krystiyan in 1976.

The only major disagreement the couple ever had was in 1983, when Illya was recalled by the agency he had left under a cloud at age thirty-nine. As an upper-echelon officer in the organization, he hadn't been subjected to mandatory deprogramming. Some months earlier his senior partner had been removed from active field duty upon attaining age forty. Averse to languishing behind a desk, however, Napoleon Solo had also resigned and moved on. Almost fifteen years later, UNCLE used Napoleon—who'd had no contact with Illya in the interim—to seek him out and cajole him into a one-time-only special mission.

Elise's arguments against Illya's going were valid: he had a business to run. They had a headstrong teenage daughter and two young children in elementary school. He was too damned old, mentally and physically, for such shenanigans. Last but not least, he'd be missing their tenth wedding anniversary! _Gott im Himmel!_ _Had he completely taken leave of his senses?_ He went anyway and wasn't killed, only slightly damaged. She eventually forgave him… but at a price.

############

_**Leaving America…**_

It was Elise who first saw the handwriting on the wall when, not long afterwards, UNCLE once more summoned her husband. She wanted no part of it and—if he were honest with himself—neither did Illya. He told them no. On top of that—long buried but never forgotten—was the specter of Illya's original attachment to KGB. Just because _that_ organization hadn't chosen to reactivate him in all that time didn't mean he was released from his obligation to his mother country—he'd merely been transferred to 'sleeper' status.

"We have to go away, Ilyusha."

"Go where? On holiday, you mean?"

"No… I mean as in gone from this place… as in gone for good. We have to disappear forever or they'll never leave us in peace."

Acknowledging the wisdom in her words, that was exactly what they did.

The decision to drop out of the world they knew wasn't made lightly nor easily achieved. It took an entire year of plotting, planning, scheming—acquiring passports in multiple identities with flawless documentation to support them… surreptitiously liquidating assets including the lucrative _haute couture_ business, squirreling away ready cash in Swiss banks and handy repositories in other countries, and subtly altering appearances with colored contact lens and hair dye—just enough to instill doubt and confusion as to their identities.

First came selection of a destination—Switzerland being the obvious choice as it had no extradition treaties and the most discreet banking institutions in the world. Next, new names: Illya had in the past employed many aliases, but they decided on a common and unremarkable Germanic surname. 'Bauer' served best, considering their intended destination.

'Illya' translated to 'Elijah' in both English and German. Elise became 'Lisa.' The kids' names were easier and well-accepted—Ekaterina, Marichka and Krystiyan became 'Kathryn,' 'Maria' and 'Christian.' The younger ones were not returned to public school after the summer break. Instead, their mother home-schooled them and they quickly became fluent in Swiss German. Kathryn would not be relocating with them. Setting her sights on a career in some branch of biological science, 'Katie Bauer' was slated to begin her freshman year at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

A regrettable but imperative act was severing all ties with former friends and colleagues. Most gut-wrenching of all was having to _again_ leave behind, _again_ without saying goodbye to the closest friend Illya'd ever had—Napoleon Solo. Photographic evidence of Illya's former life now existed only in leather-bound albums kept in the fireproof walk-in safe built into the _dacha's_ basement.

In the privacy of their own home or in the company of immediate family in _their_ homes, they were _Tato_ and _Mama_ to the children, _Dido_ and _Baba_ to the grandchildren. In Swiss public it was _Vati _and_ Mueti _or, even more informal,_ Omi _and _Opa_. Abroad, particularly in the States, _Dad, Mom, Granddad_ and _Grandma _became the standard. What might have been confusing to other children seemed perfectly normal to the junior Bauers. The son- and daughter-in-law knew Illya and Elise by their real names—out of necessity having been made party to some but not _all_ of their real history—but they used _Elijah_ and _Lisa_ in public.

As was her husband, Elise Bauer was a war orphan, having lost her home and family in the bombing of Vienna. Neither she nor Illya possessed any items of monetary or nostalgic value relating to their childhoods. When time came to make the final break, they departed with little more than what an average refugee could carry, although several crates of more recent mementos had been shipped ahead under fabricated identification. The apartment was sold lock, stock and furnishings.

And then they were gone.

############

_**The there and then…**_

Establishing their reconstructed family in a not-so-foreign country wasn't as traumatic as it might have been. Both adults and Katie had visited Switzerland many times before, and having ample cash in hand smoothed the transition. Maria and Chris took the changes in stride, at first treating it as an adventure rather than their new home. Among the other seven families on the cul-de-sac were children their age, so they weren't lacking playmates. All were enrolled in the village school and the parents alternated carpooling.

Elijah and Lisa Bauer quickly made friends of their neighbors, all of whom had 'retired' there for similar reasons—living under the radar. In his former incarnation, Illya had known of such communities where reinvented lives could continue in relative anonymity with polite fictions graciously maintained. Honor in the underworld prevailed as one obviously could not grass on a neighbor without endangering one's own existence. Life was pleasant and unhurried and the years flew by.

The children attended secondary school in Locarno, twenty-three miles away by surface roads, less than half that distance by hydrofoil. One year into her MIT studies, Katie had flown in from the States with a not altogether pleasant surprise. After a whirlwind romance with a Ukrainian exchange student from Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv, they had been married by a justice of the peace. After finishing their second year, they would be transferring to Kyiv to complete their degrees.

"Just think, I'll be 2,000 miles closer than New York," Katie beamed at her folks' gloomy faces, "…and less than two hours away!"

Privately the parents admitted that, while they'd hoped she'd have left her marital options open until after graduation, her choice was more than acceptable. Denys Romanov was polite, reserved, well-mannered and possessed of respectable family connections, both socially and financially. He spoke excellent English, French and German. More importantly, he loved their daughter and she loved him back in equal measure. Could they in good conscience ask for more? Any and all reservations were swept away the following year, when the young couple presented them with their first grandson, Elijah Jacob (Illya Yakiv in Ukrainian), named after both grandfathers—and later their first granddaughter, Evaluna Elise.

############

_**The here and now…**_

Doctors Denys (now going by 'Dennis') and Kathryn Bauer Roman, both forty-four, lived in the San Francisco suburb of Daly City, and worked at UCSF's Institute for Human Genetics. Elijah was twenty-three and Eva twenty.

Maria Bauer Connolly, thirty-five and divorced, lived in Dublin with her sixteen-year-old son Aidan and thirteen-year-old daughter Aisling. Maria worked as a translator at Trinity College.

Chris Bauer, thirty-three, had married an Australian girl—Sarah Martin, now thirty—while working as a producer for a film company in Melbourne. They also had two children, eleven-year-old Noah and nine-year-old Olivia.

Illya and Elise shared the opinion that as their progeny had each produced one boy and one girl on the first go-round, they should stop right there, considering what it cost these days to raise even one child and put it through college. Six grandchildren were enough!

And now the extended family was converging on California to celebrate Evaluna's wedding to Roberto Felipe García, son of the Bauers' vineyard estate manager. With the family dispersed over three continents, they were rarely able to congregate in the same place at the same time, but they'd had almost a year to prepare for this occasion. Barring unforeseen circumstances, they'd all made arrangements to be there.


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter 11:_** LE MOUTON NOIR**

_**A worrisome wunderkind…**_

Elijah Romanov was the source of both pride and despair in his parents. As neither of them owned a drop of musical talent, they were mystified when informed their little towhead was proving to be somewhat of a prodigy. In the early days in Kyiv, when the couple were juggling postgraduate studies with part-time employment, Denys' mother cared for Elijah and Evaluna. When the senior Romanovs elected to relocate to Spain, where other Russian retirees had established an expat community in the seaside town of Marbella, Katie arranged day care for her toddlers with the middle-aged widow who lived in the flat directly below theirs.

Madam Olga Boiko taught beginning piano at home. When Eli displayed interest in the instrument, she began teaching him out of curiosity. When he started public school at age six, Madam Olga strongly encouraged his parents to transfer him to a lyceum for gifted children. Katie enrolled him in the privately-run Gneissin State Musical College, which Eli attended until age fourteen. The Romanovs realized they had a problem when representatives from the Moscow Conservatory started nosing around, making noises about removing him from their guardianship in order to safeguard his potential talent. Even though Ukraine had been an independent nation for eleven years, diehard former Soviet officials of Mother Russia still found ways of imposing their wills on their breakaway offspring.

Katie and Denys made many trips back to the States in the course of their marriage, together for family functions and separately on professional junkets. Over the years they came to the realization that a permanent return to the States was in their best long-range interests—scientists being among the lowest-paid and least-regarded occupations in Ukraine. That, coupled with concerns for their children's future welfare in a politically unstable climate, spurred their decision to make the move sooner rather than later.

The heretofore nebulous emigration plans went into hasty though orderly overdrive. Katie'd never renounced her American citizenship and she'd had the foresight to register the births of both children with the American embassy in Kyiv. Denys' permanent residency visa was immediately granted. With everyone's documentation scrupulously in order, they encountered no difficulties in reentering the United States and setting up temporary residence at Rama de Olivo with their household goods in storage. Their applications to UCSF were quickly snapped up and they were back at work within a month. In the meantime, Eli and Eva enrolled in Calistoga Junior-Senior High School and Howell Mountain Elementary School, respectively.

With the daily Angwin-San Francisco commute proving too arduous, Katie and Dennis took a furnished apartment near the campus but left the children with the Garcías rather than interrupting their school year with yet another move. The youngsters rapidly immersed themselves in American culture and were happy enough seeing their parents at weekends. When in due course the elder Romanovs—now known as Roman—acquired a suitable house in Daly City, both kids expressed the desire to remain where they were. And when Katie and Dennis pressed the issue, the children turned to their grandfather for support. Illya's successful intercession on their behalf was based on the benefits of clean country living versus Big City dangers… so, the balance of their teenage years were spent at Rama de Olivo until both had graduated high school.

With a view toward following her mother into genetics research, Eva matriculated at UCSF where the estate manager's son, Bob García, was already a sophomore pursuing a career in viniculture. Inevitably, the affinity formed in the shared household had evolved to a sweetheart relationship in high school and a formal engagement in college. When Katie tried to discourage them from making that firm a commitment at such a young age, Eva shrewdly pointed out that Katie herself had done exactly the same… and look how well _that_ had turned out. _Plus,_ it wasn't as if they were starting out in financial straits—the Bauer grandparents had already bought them a condo in Santa Rosa as a wedding present and were underwriting all the wedding expenses. _And…_ Eva and Bob promised both sets of parents they'd finish their degrees before even thinking of starting a family.

Eli's post-graduation life, however, had taken a less than promising trajectory.

############

_**The prodigy in black sheep's clothing…**_

At twenty-three, Eli hadn't yet settled on a career, which was why he stuck with general studies at the small community college in which he'd enrolled.

To _almost_ everyone's consternation, Eli insisted he had no desire to become a concert pianist. Sure, he enjoyed playing for his own enjoyment and for the entertainment of friends and family, but he wasn't interested in making it his life's work. Occasionally, for the sheer fun of it rather than needing pocket change, he took on short-term gigs in limited venues—lounges, restaurants, hotels… even bars—but kept these activities concealed from family.

What Eli really, truly wanted to do was write—not gritty news journalism or Pulitzer-prizeworthy exposés, but thoughtful, engaging content for distinguished magazines such as _National Geographic_ or _Smithsonian_ or _Condé Nast Traveler. _He wanted to travel the world and write about people, places and events. Illya was the only living soul with whom Eli shared this ambition. Illya understood and approved, and it was his deep and generous pockets that underwrote Eli's expeditions during term breaks. Illya also promised his support for whatever institution his namesake chose for post-graduate study… assuming, of course, Eli managed to get that far.

But… there was one great stumbling block to this grandiose plan.

Although repeated batteries of standardized testing revealed that he'd inherited his grandfather's and parents' mental acuity, Eli proved unable to cope with the structured environment of a conventional classroom. At best, he was a mediocre student, barely squeaking by with a minimum grade point average. Any mathematics beyond basic comprehension was a vast wasteland. Anatomy and physiology were as far he was able to untangle the intricacies of higher science. He neither understood nor cared how machines worked—computers and combustion engines were equally beyond his comprehension. Jurisprudence, government, politics and religion were miasmic swamps of illogic. Philosophy was stratospherically beyond his grasp. He liked art though wasn't overly interested in it. History as dryly presented in the classroom bored him to distraction although he enjoyed historical novels. Even worse… he was completely disinterested in sports.

In short, school was sheer drudgery aside from literature, languages, journalism and music. Unfortunately, those subjects alone weren't enough to take Eli where he wanted to go. Unwilling to believe that their cherished offspring might be suffering from some form of attention deficit/hyperactivity disorder, Dennis and Katie at first attributed his failure to achieve decent grades as lack of application. While they weren't given to shouting or corporal punishment, they were nonetheless insistent he just needed to try harder, comparing him to his sister—a stellar example of scholarly enthusiasm with an unbroken chain of straight A's from kindergarten through high school. Eventually they came to believe that their son simply wasn't university material, and that the only reasons Eli had got into Napa Valley College were its open admissions and lax attendance policies.

NVC wasn't the best place to learn the writer's craft but Eli hoped that if he could at least earn an associate degree, he could move onwards and upwards. In the meantime, he worked out that his educational progress was best achieved by alternating quarters with travels abroad… aided and abetted by his grandfather. Of course, at this rate it would take him four more years to graduate… assuming he ever did.

############

_**The doppelgänger…**_

Eli was Illya's favorite grandson, in part because of their uncanny resemblance to each other. Eli knew it, too… and as the eldest (and, for two years, _only_) grandchild had shamelessly exploited that favoritism. He alone among the grandchildren had been made privy to his grandfather's pre-fashion industry incarnations. His parents, aunts and uncles all knew, of course, of Illya's past life in the KGB, UNCLE and House of Vanya… but didn't know _Eli_ did. Sworn to secrecy just as they'd been, he took the responsibility seriously.

According to geneticist Doctor Kathryn Roman—acclaimed expert in her field—Eli looked _exactly_ as his grandfather had at the same age. She hadn't been around then, naturally, but this she knew from official portraits in the albums locked in the vault—grinning Illya in university sports attire, smiling Illya in morning suit with his new (first) bride, officious Illya in naval lieutenant's uniform, brooding Illya in tailored business suit and tie. Her specialization was in genetic anomalies such as this. It happened, but no one yet understood the mechanics.

There was one other factor shared by grandfather and grandson… a cherished and closely guarded secret known only to the two of them…


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter 12:_** THE UNRAVELING OF A MYSTERY**

_**Kyiv, Ukraine…**_

Katie Bauer Roman's hobby was genealogy, begun while still living in Kyiv. Having early on abandoned hope of ever shedding any illumination on her own father's genesis, she had turned her research to Denys' wealthy and well-documented Romanov family—distant relations to the royals but light years removed from the line of succession. In the time of revolution they'd packed up their portable assets and repaired to England under assumed names—just in case the Red Army might succeed in killing off every last person bearing the surname 'Romanov.' When it was deemed safe to return, they did… picking up pretty much where they'd left off.

In the early years of this initially harmless pastime, Katie pored over countless crackled old photographs contained in the many albums Denys' parents had inherited. She was particularly interested in a great-great uncle by the name of Anton Feodor Romanov, who bore an eerie resemblance to her own father… a factoid she tucked away in her mind for future reference though seemingly unimportant at the time. This Anton (she was told) had been too ill to make the return journey and had been temporarily quartered with another expatriate family. After regaining his health, the then eighteen-year-old had, for whatever reason not immediately known, not returned to the Ukraine but lingered in England for the next four years. Why? And what had become of him?

############

_**An interview with Bobchi Agata…**_

Denys took Katie to meet his venerated Polish great-grandmother, _Bobchi_ Agata, who lived with a spinster daughter and was thrilled to bits to have a visitor. A wizened gnome with the face of a dried apple, _Bobchi_ at ninety-nine still had most of her marbles if none of her teeth and only a few wisps of hair. Of course she remembered Anton, a much younger cousin. In her possession were the only four communiqués the family had received during that time, and she was pleased to share their contents, along with acerbic commentary.

The first letter advised that Anton had entered employment as a groom in the stables of a rich Scots laird and wasn't coming home anytime soon. Best to all, etc.

"Not illiterate, just a lazy baboon!" _Bobchi_ opined.

The second letter advised that Anton was embroiled in an affair with the lady of the manor—an obscenely rich woman whose husband was never home—and that he anticipated reaping substantial financial rewards in return for his companionship. Hello to all, etc.

"A married woman's kept lapdog! Pah! He was raised better than that!" _Bobchi_ pretended to spit on the floor.

The yellowed envelopes, postmarked Edinburgh, bore return addresses in faded but still legible purple ink.

The third letter was posted from Rotterdam, with the news that Anton was returning to the fold with his infant son, birthed more or less out of wedlock by that same lady.

_Bobchi_ indulged in a mini-rant. "Nincompoop! What nonsense was this? As if he thought to foist off his half-English bastard on a respectable family! As if we could afford to feed another child when all around us were starving with that devil Stalin shoving communism down our throats! Good we did not own land and were not forced into a collective. We managed to survive. Millions did not."

A year had gone by with no news until another battered and creased missive arrived, postmarked Lublin. In comparison, this one was downright chatty. Also whiny. Without the bags of money he'd envisioned, Anton was obliged to work his way across the width of France, Germany and Poland—all of which were in post-Great Depression financial and social turmoil. Food for himself, milk for the baby and transportation were not free and not in abundance, and he could travel only as far as money trickling in from day jobs provided. But with a mere five hundred sixty kilometers to go, he was practically in sight of the border and they should expect him within the week.

"Fool! As if his mess was our responsibility to fix! Idiot! How could he not know of the troubles here in his homeland?"_ Bobchi _stopped speaking then, obviously having worked herself into a geriatric conniption. Her shriveled bosom heaved with indignation and her raisin-like eyes leaked tears down her crinkled cheeks. Daughter Klara, who had been sitting in, assured the visitors that _Bobchi_ was in no danger of apoplexy… just needed a few moments to collect her wits, which had scattered like cockroaches when the light is switched on.

Shuffling to the kitchen, Klara returned with a brown jug of _samohon_ and four squat glass tumblers milky with age. Klara and great-granny each tossed off a large one. Denys declined as he was driving. Katie took two sips and thought her nose hairs would fall out—she enjoyed pepper vodka as much as anyone, but this stuff was as powerful as drain opener. _Bobchi_ held out her glass for a refill, which she downed in one go.

They waited for the old lady to pick up the story.

############

_**The end of Anton…**_

Anton and the baby never got home and there were no more letters. _Oh well, _thought Katie_. Just another dead end. Still, I have that address in Scotland and it's better than nothing. _But _Bobchi_ wasn't done yet.

In 1946 a shabby emaciated man had shown up on their doorstep with information… for a price: whatever food they could spare for a starving Romani family that had miraculously escaped extinction.

Years before Germany's Einsatzgruppen began rounding up 'undesirables,' the Stalinist regime had been steadily purging the region of perceived Ukrainian nationalists. Their policy was to shoot first and not even bother to ask questions later. A man identifying himself as Anton Romanov had been caught up in one such raid. Wounded, he'd fled into the forest and stumbled upon a Servitka Roma camp. Before succumbing to his injuries, he secured a promise from their leader to look after and keep safe his year-old boy until the child could be restored to his rightful family in Kyiv. The leader's name was Pavel Kuryakin.

Katie's head was swirling. Her heart beat so hard that surely the others could hear it. _It couldn't be, could it? It must be!_

The gypsy band had been driven deeper and deeper into the forests in their desperation to avoid genocide. There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell of making a sortie down to Kyiv to deliver a toddler to people who'd never even seen him and possibly had no idea he even existed. The Romi had been forced to split up and the man at the door and his family had separated from the main group. He had no idea what had happened to that little boy—shot, most likely… but maybe not. Perhaps Pavel's immediate family had succeeded in escaping. At any rate, as he was here in the city he felt they ought to hear of their kinsman's fate… and could he have some food, please?

At that point_ Bobchi_ abruptly fell asleep, drool dribbling down her chin, and that was that. Klara escorted them out, indicating Katie should return another day. But life intruded… and death. Katie and Denys were about to leave for America and had to finish packing up their household. Before Katie could get back to her, _Bobchi_ was resting in peace in another dimension. Katie made sure Klara had their forwarding address in case other evidence should come to light among her mother's effects.

Along with her Romanov research, Katie had made tentative inquiries into local gypsy communities. Being _gadje_, she wasn't welcomed with open arms and floods of information, but did find families admitting to being or knowing Kurakins, Kurics, Kuratins, Kuryshckins and Kuryshkins. Others allowed as how they'd _heard_ of Kuryakin but didn't _know_ anyone by that name.

Katie fully intended to follow up via internet research but all her spare time in months to come was consumed by moving, finding a new home, unpacking and getting settled into a new job. There just wasn't any time left for pursuing her 'hobby'—not then and not for the next seven years…


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter 13:_** THE GATHERING OF THE CLAN**

_**Sunday, May 16th… San Francisco…**_

Ordinarily it would have taken two hours to clear customs and security but, with touchdown at 1:30am, crowds were sparse. The weary passengers were whisked through with dispatch. As the travelers had lost nine hours traveling westward back in time, it was still Saturday to them. By 3:00am the Bauers were installed in their reserved suite at Virgin Bayside.

First thing in the morning, Illya called Bob García to advise that after checking out he and Elise would be heading over to the dining room for lunch and would hire a car for the eighty-six-mile trip to Angwin. Bob said not to bother, he'd already rented a party bus that would carry them all to the estate in style.

"A bus?" his future grandfather-in-law queried. "Why?"

"Well… there's you and Lisa. Myself and Eva. Katie and Den. Maria and her two kids… they got here yesterday. Chris and Sarah and their two are supposed to get in around noonish—haven't checked yet to see if their flight's on time. That makes thirteen unless I've missed someone. Well, there's Eli but he isn't here yet."

"Elise wants to know who's where at the moment."

"Katie and Maria are with Eva at a fitting. Den's here at our place, with the kids. You want we should join you for lunch?"

"No… no… that's all right. We'll be fine on our own until you come to collect us."

"Okeydokey. See you around one, then we'll swing by the airport if the Aussie delegation has arrived by then."

"Oh wait… Elise wants to know, what about Eli?"

"Who the hell knows?" Bob blew a raspberry. "In the wind somewhere, as usual."

"Have you heard from him at all?"

"Not a peep since Denver, so we know he's in-country. I'm sure he'll turn up eventually."

Chris and family arrived as scheduled and were quickly swept up at the airport. The party bus had banquette seating in a figure eight configuration with tables running the length of the cabin so that passengers all faced inward. With an onboard toilet and well-stocked refrigerator plus snacks for the kids, they were all set to motor non-stop to Angwin. Bob drove. Illya rode shotgun, listening with half an ear to the lively exchanges taking place behind him. With his entire family (minus one) assembled for the celebration, he couldn't remember when he'd been this happy. Acutely aware of the statistical possibility he might not be around to witness another such gathering, Illya vowed to savor this one to the last drop.

############

_**Rama de Olivo, Angwin…**_

When the party bus arrived in late afternoon there was a modicum of kerfluffle… hauling luggage upstairs, sorting out bedrooms, wrangling overtired, enervated children. Tessa arranged for the young ones to be fed early at the refectory table in the kitchen. Then the mothers shepherded them upstairs for baths and bed while the menfolk hid in the library. A light supper was served in the dining room, followed by drinks and conviviality around the fire pit on the side patio near the swimming pool. Tessa announced that breakfast would be buffet-style so that those who wanted to sleep in could do so. The party petered out by midnight and quiet once again descended on the venerable hacienda.


	14. Chapter 14

_Chapter 14:_** THROWN IN THE BRIAR PATCH**

_**Friday, May 28th… Goat Rock…**_

Elijah Roman aka Earnest Bunbury was in a jam. As luck would have it, Rowan Cameron was still absent and the piano pedagogues had not yet returned from abroad. Even if they suddenly appeared, they couldn't jump cold and unrehearsed into the program. Although the reluctant ringer had all along vehemently maintained that he couldn't… _wouldn't…_ serve as accompanist for the recital itself, somehow he'd ended up agreeing that he would. _How had that happened?_ Eli wondered as he distributed feed to the horses before turning them out for the day.

As they worked together, Jack Harper cast thoughtful glances at his uncharacteristically quiet and plainly troubled stablehand.

"Wouldn't worry overmuch 'bout tomorrer, young 'un," Jack advised, jovially patting Eli on the shoulder.

"Huh? What?"

"That showdown. Ye'll do fine. The gals ain't one bit skeert…"

"That's not the problem." Eli bit his lip. "It's… uh… something else."

"Wanna talk 'bout it?"

"Don't know that I can. It's personal."

"Ya ain't got that nice Ronnie inta trouble, I hope?" Jack regarded him with a gimlet eye. "Cuz they'd be hell to pay."

"Trouble?"

"Ya know what kinda trouble I mean, son. I wouldn't take kindly to that, n'er would her folks."

It took a moment for the old man's meaning to register. "God, no! It's nothing like that. We've been careful." Eli felt his face flush with embarrassment at this less than nuanced probe into his recent dalliance. And how would the old man know, anyway, unless he'd been lurking around the camper, which was solidly stabilized and did _not_ rock? Perhaps he'd been up early enough to espy Ronnie climbing into a friend's borrowed Morris Mini to sneak back to campus.

Taking the feed bucket from Eli's hand, Jack edged him toward a hay bale. "Come set a spell with yer old Uncle Jack an' let's jaw. Like my ma useta say, _'a problem tolt another'n is a problem whacked in half.__'_ Tell me what be ailin' ya an' mayhaps I kin help."

Eli didn't see how, but sat anyway. "It's like this… a long time ago my grandfather got into some big trouble with the wrong people… government people and… you know… the other kind? So anyway, he went undercover and took the whole family with him. Those people are _still_ looking for him after all this time."

Jack Harper was no fan of government on _any_ level and held a mighty dim view of laws in general. In his opinion, there was entirely too damned much of it _and_ them these days. He nodded his understanding. "So he's like one a them underworld crime bosses? I seen 'The Godfather,' y'know. Now _there's_ folks what knows how t'mind their own business!"

As Jack seemed to find the situation amusing and demonstrated a sympathetic mindset, Eli decided it was safe to leave him with the impression that the family patriarch was a _capofamiglia_… not bothering to explain that, technically—as his family wasn't Italian—a Russian mob boss was _vor v zakone_.

"What's that got to do with you an' this here show tomorrer night?" Jack asked.

"The thing is, there are going to be people in the audience who might recognize me… at least enough to question who I'm related to. I know it sounds crazy but I'm pretty sure there've been people following me… maybe because I look so much like my granddad."

The older man sat with elbows firmly implanted on his knees, sucking on a straw as he pondered the younger one's predicament.

############

_**Eli's quandary…**_

"What you just tole me do 'splain somethin'," Jack finally said. "Didn't get t'chance to tell ya before, but a coupla jaspers come 'round here yesterday, sniffin' 'round yer camper, askin' where was the young feller what owned it."

Eli went rigid. "What did you tell them?"

Jack grinned wickedly. "First off, didn't care fer their attitude n'er much else. They was unfriendly 'n downright rude. Tole 'em ya ast was I innerested in buyin' that rig. Tole 'em I were an' the last I seen ya was hitchin' a ride outta town with some trucker headin' south ta Pocatello. They couldn't tear outten here fast enough."

"They'll be back," Eli muttered. "Sorry you had to lie for me. Why did you, by the way?"

"Can't abide rude folk an' like to think I'm a pretty good judge a character. I could smell them yahoos was up to no good."

"I sure do thank you, Jack. You've bought me some time… but now what do I do?"

"I reckon you need t'light outten these parts soon's ya can," Jack drawled. "But you done made a promise an' I don't see no way outten _that_. Cain't be lettin' down yer friends an' all them other folks atter ya done give yer word."

"I know that. But I don't mind admitting I'm scared shitless, Jack... on both counts. I've never played to an audience that big… and I can't lead those men to my granddad and the rest of my folks. I'll have to leave tomorrow night, right after the recital."

Jack hooted. "Jus' how far ya think ye'll git afore they ketch up with ya, now they got that camper a yourn spotted?"

"I guess you're right. Is there a Greyhound station in Whitefish? Could you get me there? I'd have to leave the camper behind and…"

"Whoa there, son! Lemme think on this a minute." The old man squinted off toward the pasture, tapping his chin. "Tell me true, boy… ya didn't steal that camper, didja? Hate to find out later I weren't smart as I think I am."

"No, sir. I bought it legally. The title and registration are in my name."

"Well, that's good, then. When d'ya need to be at rehearsal today?"

"Noon as usual, but I need to get there at least fifteen minutes early and I have to clean up first…"

Jack pulled out his pocket watch and checked it. "Plenty a time. Come on with me. I got me a notion an' somethin' to show ya…"

############

_**The getaway vehicle…**_

Situated at the far back of the RV park was a ramshackle outbuilding that at one time might have served as a barn. "My cache," Jack said, removing padlocks. The wide double doors were surprisingly easy to swing open on well-oiled hinges. It took Eli's eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dimness of the interior. The side and back walls were stacked high with the packrat's collection of junk, coated in dust and festooned with cobwebs. But in the center a large object was covered with an enormous, fairly dust-free tarpaulin. Its outline advertised it as a pickup truck and that's exactly what lay underneath—a dented, rust-pocked, primer-coated 1980 Chevy Silverado that wouldn't have been out of place in an abandoned junkyard. Eli had no idea why he was being shown this item. Jack cackled, reading his mind.

"Ole Silver don't look like much but she runs like a scalded polecat. I cranks 'er up ever' now an' then an' takes 'er out fer a run."

"Are you suggesting Ole Silver as my getaway ride?"

"She'll get ya where you need to go, no worry 'bout that," Jack said. "Got a rebuilt V-8, new battery an' almost new tires. Had 'er serviced just last month over to my cousin Slim's shop. Maybe you ain't noticed but there be a buncha these ole trucks still in use out here in the country."

"I'm not sure…"

"Look here, young 'un. My ole grammaw come from the Amish an' they got 'em a sayin': _'Use it up, wear it out, make do or do without.__' _That's what folks hereabouts do. We don't run out an' buy a new truck er tractor ever' fifteen er twenny years. You take right good care a yer 'chinery an' it'll last…"

"Okay, okay… I believe you. How much you want for Ole Silver here?"

"Weren't figurin' on sellin' 'er. Thinkin' more along the lines a tradin' fer that camper a yourn. Ye'll be takin' a loss on it, but ya gotta leave it behin' anyhow. An' then I won't a lied to them two ole boys when they comes high-falutin' it back."

Eli didn't need to think very long about it. "It's a deal. I'll need to start packing tonight so I can get away right after the performance tomorrow."

"Good idee. Gimme yer papers an' ah'll get bills a sale backdated an' notarized tomorrer."

"Where are you going to find a notary public on a weekend?"

Jack smirked. "Cuzzin Slim's a notary an' he owes me."

For a few moments of latent panic while in the shower, Eli considered bolting right then and there. But rational thought cut in about the time the hot water cut out. _Those men or others like them will most certainly be back, but not anytime soon... I'll get through the performance and _then_ disappear… Jack's right about something else: I won't be able to say goodbye to my friends. The less they know about my whereabouts the safer they'll be…_

Pulling out his disposable cell phone, Eli entered his grandfather's landline number and jittered impatiently while the overseas relay kicked in. In seconds he was speaking with the housekeeper. No, Frau Schmidt regretfully informed him, Herr Doktor and Madame had gone to America and would be gone for weeks and weeks. He thanked her and broke the connection.


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter 15: _** GASPING AT ILLUSIONS**

_**Saturday, May 29th… Goat Rock and Glacier Institute…**_

When he gave in about playing for the recital, Eli reminded the girls he didn't own a suit and tie, much less a tuxedo.

"You don't need no stinkin' tuxedo," Pallas smirked. "Everyone dresses the same—in black. The college wants judges and audience alike to focus on talent rather than fashion sense. For the guys it's untucked, open-neck shirts and trousers, _à la_ Joshua Bell. Girls wear dresses or blouses and skirts."

"The only black clothes I've got are jeans and a turtleneck."

"That'll do. Beggars can't be choosers."

Locating a pair of black low-quarter boots he'd forgotten he had, Eli packed them in his gym tote, folding on top of them the freshly-laundered black items. Driving to campus in his usual attire, it occurred to him the girls might have forgotten to mention it was to be a _dress_ rehearsal. Fortunately, it wasn't. They were going to break for a light repast and then change in the practice studios. In fact, when he got there everyone else appeared to have rummaged through a ragpicker's bag. It was difficult to envision the transformation to come.

############

_**Showtime, Turner Theatre for the Performing Arts…**_

At six, attendees began trickling into the auditorium. By six thirty the performers, light and soundboard operators and all other backstage crew were gathered for a last minute pep rally led by Professor Eddings. A curtain-peeker reported that all four hundred seats were taken. At seven the house lights dimmed and the various presenters sallied forth to make their speeches. The chamber orchestra took their places and tuned up. Eli had asked if he could be seated with them, so as not to draw undue attention to himself, but Eddings had insisted he make a solo grand entrance. The performers, except for Pallas, circulated good luck whispers before being shushed by the stage manager. At last the curtains were drawn open and they were ready to begin… or as ready as they could possibly be considering the level of tension. There were no winners here… only acceptable scores as determined by faculty judges. No one wanted to repeat his or her senior year.

Veronica's grandparents' paths crossed in the parking lot—April with her current swain and Mark with his wife. The two former partner-agents and lovers flew to each other with hugs and kisses, which Alice accepted with amused benevolence. The petite rotund blonde knew she paled in comparison to the flamboyant auburn-haired April, but after thirty-five years of marriage wasn't concerned about encroachment on her territory. After all, April had her chance to bag Mark during their affair, but ultimately it was Alice who'd walked out of the church with him.

At sixty-eight, April was still an attractive woman—tall and willowy with good looks assiduously maintained by Hollywood's top stylists and plastic surgeons. Mark hadn't aged so well—gaunt and haggard at seventy-six, with a circlet of gray wisps clinging to a shining dome. April's handsome silver-haired date, Robert Hart, needed no introduction. In his prime he'd been one of the most sought-after leading men in film and television and still worked regularly, though at eighty no longer top-billed.

Being among the earliest arrivals, the foursome scored primo seats in the front row, center section… with April and Mark sitting next to each other. They chatted amiably until the program got underway. Everyone familiar with Oscar Wilde's best-known play chuckled when, after introducing the chamber orchestra, the conductor announced the pianist as 'Earnest Bunbury.'

April, Mark and Alice stifled a collective gasp as the slender blond in a black turtleneck stalked from the wings to take his place at the bench.

"Blimey!" Mark squeaked. "Do you see what I see?" he hissed to April, who was gaping in a most unattractive manner.

"I'd have to be blind not to," she whispered back.

"Has the phoenix arisen from the ashes?"

"Don't be stupid, Mark. He was a year older than you. It couldn't possibly be…"

"Put a badge on him… and those awful horn-rimmed spectacles with the green-tinted lens..."

Someone shushed them from a seat behind.

############

_**The performance…**_

Music was the one area where Eli's attention disorder didn't interrupt his concentration. The jitters evaporated as he approached the Steinway, his immediate surroundings spiraling down to just himself and the majestic instrument awaiting his fingers to bring it to life. It was as if he splintered into three separate beings: one focused on the beautiful music he was about to summon, another ensuring he seamlessly complemented the orchestra, and yet another guiding his awareness of each singer as he or she came onstage. The reasons for their presence were shunted aside. The audience no longer existed. His personal problems were boxed in and contained. Only the music mattered.

Because Eli's formal training hadn't gone as far as establishing stage presence with elaborate flourishes, his fingers moved over the keys with an economy of motion. Making no eye contact with anyone, he maintained a relaxed posture with no dramatic swaying or dipping or head bobbing, striving to keep his expression neutral.

Eli had lost one other battle with Eddings, in which he'd asked that the piano be placed at the rear of the orchestra. But earlier, he'd had words with the lighting technicians, requesting that spotlights be kept well away from him. In his tenebrous corner of the stage he felt calm and in control. What he couldn't have known—following his all too visible emergence from the side curtains—was that his efforts to preserve some semblance of anonymity and deflect attention were having the opposite effect on certain elements of that 'non-existent' audience.

The first half of the recital went beautifully. Eddings had allowed that the females could wear whatever style of dress they wished—as long as it was decent. And black.

Pallas entranced the audience with her soaring vocals and 1880s-appropriate Viennese ball gown with a décolletage deep enough to mildly titillate but within the bounds of decorum. There wasn't much she could do about the not-era-appropriate cropped hair, though it did lend a certain insouciance to her appearance and she refused to wear a wig.

Veronica's voice was in great form as she belted out Carmen's best-known aria. Her _à la gitana_ off-the-shoulder peasant blouse and full ruffled skirt contributed to the image without violating the all-black stricture. Barefoot, with her long dark hair streaming over her shoulders, she was every inch the bold, doomed gypsy girl.

After a brief intermission came the duets. Pallas and Ronnie wore identical sleeveless vee-neck/vee-back floor-length illusion gowns in slinky jersey—as stunning as their melodious harmony. Clapping as vigorously as the Veronica faction were Pallas' extended family seated three rows back.

The applause was thunderous as orchestra and pianist stood up to take their bows, and all twelve vocalists lined up to receive well-deserved accolades. Their Father Goose—Professor Eddings—was giddy with triumph… not a hitch, sour note or hiccup. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that all his goslings would be in receipt of the highest marks ever achieved in his tenure.

############

_**The afterparty…**_

Veronica's people scurried off to the rehearsal hall where the afterparty was getting underway. Huddling in a corner with flutes of champagne in hand, Mark and April returned to the phenomenon that had caught their attention earlier. Robert listened in without knowing anything of the topic. Alice, though, was intrigued. She and her brother Melvin had often visited their _real_ uncle—Alexander Waverly—in his capacity as chief of UNCLE's New York headquarters. They'd met all the top agents, including those holding badges #11 and #2—Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, as well as #22 and #14—April Dancer and Mark Slate.

"Perhaps he's been reincarnated?" Mark quipped.

"That only happens when you're dead, idiot," April snapped. "He _did_ turn up after fifteen years, didn't he? And anyway I don't believe in that foolishness. Besides which, who's to say he _is _dead?"

"Stands to reason, my dear. After that last caper, he dropped off the face of the earth, so I was told. Hasn't been a whiff in nearly thirty years. Every time that's happened, the absentee agent's turned up dead."

"Except for the bodies that've never been found," April muttered ominously.

"There is that," Mark agreed.

"Pardon me," Robert queried politely, "but who're you talking about? What agents?"

"We used to work together, April and I, in..." Mark started.

"…industrial espionage, security and so forth," April finished for him.

"Kind of like your CIA, you know? Very hush-hush…" Mark picked up the thread.

"People actually kill other people over ideas?" Robert looked doubtful.

"It can be quite dangerous, yes," Mark assured him.

"So who's the guy… the reincarnated one?"

"Oh… he was a fellow agent. Russian, as a matter of fact. The piano player tonight was a dead ringer. Gave us a bit of a start, he did," Mark said rather too off-handedly.

"Yeah, no big deal," April piped up brightly. "The man we knew has probably kicked the bucket by now. He and his partner had a reputation for taking unnecessary risks."

Alice interrupted them with a snort and an eye-roll. "Not necessarily. We're all in the same age bracket and we're still alive and kicking. And has it not occurred to you that the young man might be a relative? Can't hurt to ask. Let's get Veronica to introduce him to us, shall we?"

############

_**Speculation runs rampant…**_

The hall erupted in cheers and hurrahs as the victorious performers filed in, to be instantly corralled into family groups. 'Earnest Bunbury' was not among them. Forty minutes passed before the revelry subsided enough that April was able to insinuate a query into a semiprivate conversation with her granddaughter. Mark stood quietly nearby, antennae quivering. Alice and Robert were off scarfing up hors d'oeuvres at the refreshments table.

"We'd like to meet your accompanist but I don't see him anywhere…"

Not much caused Ronnie to blush but her grandmother's seemingly innocent question did. Perspiration beaded on her temples as she visualized a neon sign pulsing over her head, spelling out 'HARLOT.' "Eli? Uh… gone home, I guess. Maybe he had a headache or something." She gritted her teeth, knowing her grandmother was just getting started.

"Eli? But wasn't he introduced as Earnest?"

"Oh, Gram… you know that was just a joke, right?"

"Of course. Well, perhaps he'll turn up later and you can introduce us."

"Wouldn't count on it."

"With concert-class talent like his, one wonders why he chose to attend this school rather than..." April mused, leaving the statement unfinished as there was nothing to be gained by reconstituting an old argument. She and Mark had anticipated their granddaughter's matriculation at a more prestigious facility. On their insistence, Ronnie applied to Juilliard and several other better-known music schools… and had been accepted by all. But she'd fixed on what they considered a backwater second-rate institution and they'd yielded in the end.

"He's not a student here, Gram," Ronnie bristled, adding, "He lives in town."

"I see. What _is_ his real name, if you don't mind my asking?"

"It's Elijah Roman. He's… uh… Russian…." An even guiltier flush suffused Ronnie's face. Having sneaked a peek at his driver's license while he was in the shower, Ronnie knew a lot more about Eli than he knew she knew—his birthdate and permanent address, for instance. On another occasion she'd offered to fix lunch in the camper while he was off with Jack feeding the horses. Hunting for clean dish towels in drawers, she came across a slender briefcase, unlocked. It was wrong of her… she knew that… but curiosity and temptation proved too strong to resist. Inside were a passport and photocopies of all official documents pertaining to one Elijah Jacob Romanov/Roman.

An icy finger poked April right between the shoulder blades. Apparently it was poking Mark, too, judging by the expression on his face.

"Russian? How… interesting."

"Ukrainian, actually. He was just passing through and happened to be available when we needed him. It's a long story, Gram. Can it keep? I'm bushed. Are you staying in Goat Rock?"

"Yes… in the No-Tell Motel or whatever it's called. Good thing I made reservations months ago. What are your recommendations for breakfast?"

"The Dew Drop does a great country breakfast. Or the Bighorn Café, if you want something lighter and quicker. Why don't you give me a buzz when you wake up? I'll come join you."

"That would be lovely, sweetheart. Around ten o'clock, say? We're not early risers."

After Ronnie left and Robert and Alice returned from stuffing their faces, they held a quick conference.

"Too queer by half!" Mark stated emphatically. "I should think an investigation is in order, don't you?"

"Indeed it is," April agreed, turning to her date. "Hope you don't mind too much tagging along."

"Are you kidding?" he grinned. "I'm not a detective but I've played one on television. I'm in!"

Mark had also made local reservations, but not early enough to get a room at one of the motels. He and his helpmeet were staying at the RV park, to Alice's delight.

"I've not slept in a caravan since I was a child and our folks took us to a holiday camp in Cornwall. What fun!"

Mark was less sanguine. The trailer to which they had been given a key was small and cramped, but clean, at least.

They arranged to meet for breakfast and left in their respective rental cars. That evening, in their respective boudoirs, discussion returned to the Mystery Pianist.

############

_**Pillow talk at the No-Tell Motel…**_

"Tell me more about this Secret Agent Man who may or may not be dead," Robert said, shifting about in search of a non-lumpy spot in the mattress.

"We weren't all _that_ secret," April objected. "Except, you know, when we had to go undercover. Move over. You're mashing my boob."

"This just gets better and better. Go on. And stop hogging the blanket."

April told him as much as she could without giving away the entire farm along with the livestock.

"So what are you going to do about it?" Robert inquired, getting a death grip on the corner of what he thought was the duvet.

"Do?" April demurred. "There is no _do._ I've been out of the loop for over forty years. I don't have any contacts. And that's my nightgown, you oaf. I'm now indecently exposed."

"Is the agency still in existence? I love it when you talk dirty."

"Far as I know, RJ."

"RJ? What happened to 'Huggy Bear'?"

"That was fifty years ago. Nowadays it's more like 'Old Pervert Bear.' "

"I beg to differ. I am not _old._"

"Yes, you are. And so am I. Go to sleep."

"But I was planning on showing you some old pervert moves."

"Already seen 'em all."

Robert aka RJ aka Old Pervert Bear was quiet for two minutes before murmuring, "Someone, somewhere, has to know _something._"

"For heaven's sake. Don't you think I've _tried?_ Mark, too. Napoleon, too. There's nothing to be found. End of story."

"Who's Napoleon?"

"He invaded Russia. Go to sleep."

############

… _**and at the RV park…**_

Spooned together in a three-quarter size bed in the dilapidated travel trailer, Mark and Alice were carrying on a similar conversation.

"Darling, you _do_ remember Mel used to work for _them_ in archives, don't you?"

"Yes, poppet. I remember. I may be old but I'm not senile. Could you give me just another inch or two? My dangly bits are dangling off the edge."

"He still has lots of friends there," Alice mused. "I'll bet he could prevail on one of them to have a squizz through the retired personnel records."

"Already tried that meself. Trail goes cold after 1981."

"Gossip then. You know how maudlin those old farts get after a pint or three."

"Careful there, old woman. I can always replace you with a pair of thirty-five-year-olds."

"Don't you wish!"

Mark sighed. "The records have probably been declassified after all this time… but getting into them… do we know any really good computer hackers?"

"No. But I'll have a chat with Mel. In the meantime, let's have a go at that young chap, if Veronica can produce him tomorrow. And no, I can't give you any more room. Me bum's squidged against the wall as it is."


	16. Chapter 16

_Chapter 16:_** ON THE ROAD AGAIN**

_**Sunday, May 30th… mid-morning at the Bighorn Café in Goat Rock…**_

The four oldsters took over the round corner booth so that each could set up their laptops and still have room for their coffees and bagels. When Veronica came in she did a double-take._ Why should I be surprised? These days everyone travels with their laptops or notepads, even old people. _Plus, she regularly exchanged emails and private messages with family when they were at home. By the time she got her latté and strawberry cream cheese croissant they'd all scootched over to make room.

Robert was a nice man, for a has-been Hollywood hunk declassed to character actor, and Ronnie liked him. _Wouldn't mind having him for a granddad, although that'll never happen. Gram's too independent._ On the other hand, there was a faint ickiness at the idea of her glamorous Grandmum… Gram, she corrected herself… having sex with an eighty-year-old man, no matter how fit he appeared. _Not my circus, not my clowns._ Which was even a worse mental image.

"Huh?" She twitched, realizing he'd been speaking to her. "I'm sorry. You were saying?"

"I was asking where your friend is this morning."

"Oh… Pallas? She's gone to Whitefish with her family. They're staying over until graduation and there're so many of them they booked a whole floor at the Best Western…"

"I think he means your _other_ friend, sweetie," April cut in. "That cute blond… the Russkie." Without meaning to she cut her eyes at Mark, who'd hunkered over to hide his face behind his monitor.

"Ukrainian, Gram. Different country," Ronnie responded too tartly. "And I don't know. And before you ask, I don't know why he didn't attend the afterparty, either. He disappeared without saying anything to anyone."

"You needn't bite my head off! Just asking…"

"Sorry. I went by his camper but he wasn't there."

"He lives in a camper? Is he… er… a gypsy?"

"No, Gram. He's a… just a traveler."

"You mean like… an _Irish traveller_? Oh, honey… you don't want to get mixed up with _those_ people!"

"No, Gram. Just another tourist, far as we know."

"What does he do for a living?"

"Don't know."

"Where does he live when he's not traveling?"

"Beats me." Ronnie crossed her fingers under the table. _The less Gram knows, the better…_

"Seems to me, as much time as you and your friends have spent with this man, you should know more about him."

"Why are you so worried, Gram? It's not like I'm planning to marry the guy or anything. We've never asked him. If he wanted us to know, he would've told us."

Getting the hint, April backed off a little. "Are you sure he wasn't just sleeping soundly?"

"He. Wasn't. There. Okay?" _Please don't ask how I know that, Gram,_ Ronnie thought, thinking of the key in her purse, although she hadn't used it… just knocked on the door and bedroom window. "Maybe he just needed to stretch his legs and went for walkies."

_Something's not right... the Jeep's here, Cheetah's here, but he's not… should've been helping Jack…_ Filling feed tubs on his own, the old man had been evasive when questioned—almost grumpy, claiming it wasn't his job to mind Eli's whereabouts, was it? _When I'm done here I'm _so_ gonna march back and grill that old buzzard like a sausage… unless Eli's turned up…_

"What's next, now you're done here?" Robert asked. Seeing the question caused the girl discomfort, he smoothly segued into,"Going back to England or staying on with us for a while?"

_Us?_ "Oh… um. We've got another week to go here… didn't Gram tell you? Next Saturday is the cap-and-gown thing, you know? Then Sunday we have to pack up my dorm room…" _Stop babbling!_

Robert arched an eyebrow at his companion, with a minute grimace. "You didn't mention we were staying _here_ for another week." _Seven more days on that corrugated mattress and my spine'll be as crooked as Richard Nixon. _"Not that it matters. I'm completely at your disposal."

April blew him a kiss. "Of course you are, honey." She turned to Ronnie. "Now, sweetie, we've decided to drive back rather than fly. Robert suggests a scenic route through Idaho, Washington and Oregon, then follow the coast on down. Won't that be fun?"

_Not much_, Ronnie was thinking, wondering how on earth they expected to get all her stuff into the compact car they'd rented. Then she realized the others were regarding her with smug grins. "All right you guys… what's going on?"

############

_**Surprise number one…**_

"We're not going back to Los Angeles, Ronnie…"

"We're not?" Ronnie's heart fell to her socks. She'd _so_ looked forward to surf season at Malibu and Topanga!

"It's so gruesomely hot and crowded this time of year that Robert and I decided to lease a place on Bodega Bay, north of San Francisco. He's brought his yacht up from Marina Del Rey and there's a golf course nearby."

"But I won't know anyone there, Gram," Ronnie sniffled, close to tears. "All my friends are in LA." _For heaven's sake, don't whine!_

"So you'll make new ones," April shrugged. "Believe me… you'll love it there… plenty of year-round surf action from Salmon Creek down to Ocean Beach. Oh… and some really nice stables and miles of riding trails in several state parks nearby."

_Year-round surfing? Stables?_ "Gram… I've only got twelve more weeks then it's back to London for auditions…"

Again the old folks exchanged pregnant looks. Obviously her grandmother was the ringleader of a conspiracy.

"We've been discussing your future, Ronnie…"

_Oh shit._

"Ultimately, it's up to you to decide, of course… but… how would you like to live here permanently? Before you say anything, allow us to present a few more inducements. Mark… would you begin?"

"Ah, yes… well then, Veronica… the thing is… Alice and I signed up for a world cruise, beginning in August. We'll be abroad an entire year, so we'll be closing the townhouse. Should you choose to return to London, we'll arrange for an appropriate flat and an adequate monthly stipend to cover all expenses. Should you decide to remain in the States, your grandmother will assist you with living arrangements but Alice and I will continue to contribute financial support. April… back to you."

Ronnie was beginning to feel like a spectator at a ping-pong match.

April delved into her sling tote, extracting a sheaf of brochures which she laid on the table. "When summer's over, if you decide to stay in this area, there's opera and a plethora of live theatre venues in both San Francisco and Los Angeles. Needless to say, Robert and I have scores of contacts in both cities. In my opinion, however, Frisco is much more cosmopolitan than LA and the climate is certainly better. In fact, we're thinking of relocating permanently."

Ronnie was warming up to the idea at a rapidly accelerating rate. _Cold, rainy, foggy London versus California's sunny beaches?_

"Would I live with you or have my own place?"

"With us, to begin with. Once you've decided, we'll buy you a condo in either city."

############

_**Surprise number two…**_

"You keep saying 'we' and 'us,'Gram… are you guys actually living together now?" There. She'd brought _that_ out into the open.

"Have been and will continue to do so. You see, darling, we were married last month. Mr Hart, may I have my ring back now?"

Robert produced a wide gold band and placed it on April's ring finger. They then kissed as their audience gaped in mute astonishment.

Mark struggled to his feet, holding aloft his coffee mug. "A toast to the newlyweds." He crooked a finger at the lone server lounging against the counter. "My good woman, a magnum of your finest champers, if you please!"

The confused woman scuttled over. "Excuse me? I'm not sure…"

"Alas… no champagne? Pity, that. Oh well… more coffee, then."

Ronnie started giggling and didn't stop until all five were laughing uproariously. The server brought a carafe of coffee and retreated to the safety of the other side of the counter.

"I sure didn't see this coming," Ronnie hiccupped. "Congratulations, Gram and… uh… do I call you Granddad or what?"

"Robert will do. Or Bob."

April blotted her eyes with a handkerchief before her mascara could run. "Wait… there's more." The sling bag yielded a small, flat and gaily-wrapped package which she placed in front of Ronnie.

"What's this?"

"Your graduation gift, silly. Go ahead… open it."

############

_**Surprise number three…**_

Inside the wrapping paper was a box… and inside the box was a plastic replica automobile key and a card. The card read: _'From your grandparents… Bob and April and Mark and Alice… your choice (within reason!).'_

Ronnie made her _where_ decision on the spot. _California it is, hands down!_

############

_**Surprise number four…**_

April explained that the leased house was an enormous Victorian rambler built in the twenties by a wealthy industrialist as a summer home. Situated on four acres of waterfront, it had been completely renovated with all modern conveniences. If they were so inclined at expiration of the lease, they had option to buy. With six bedrooms, four complete bathrooms, a wraparound verandah with screened sleeping porch, swimming pool, hot tub and sauna, it was ideal for entertaining whatever guests they chose to invite—including Ronnie's. Mark and Alice would be spending the next six weeks at Bodega Bay with Robert and April and their mutual granddaughter.

Oh yes… this deal was sealed as far as Veronica Slate was concerned.

############

_**On the road again…**_

Elijah Roman was already hundreds of miles south, tooling down the interstate at a relatively sedate sixty miles per hour… or less whenever he ramped off at a truck stop to gas up, grab something to eat and visit the facilities. In mufti—grease-stained mechanic's coverall, surplus army boots, weather-beaten olive drab field jacket, motheaten black wool watch cap pulled low—Eli fit right in with the truckers, oil rig roustabouts and migrant pickers patronizing the diners. The broken, almost unintelligible English he employed discouraged conversation. Should he be pulled over at some random roadblock, there was absolutely nothing on his person, in his duffels in the cab, or in the cargo bay to invoke suspicion in a state trooper or sniffer dog. All papers, both his own and the vehicle's, were in order and up to date. Humming along on this Sunday morning, with favorable weather and road conditions and light traffic, Eli harked back to his earlier conversation with Jack regarding his problems and his urgent need to fly under the radar.

As promised, all had been in readiness when Eli returned that evening. In less than an hour, papers and future contact information were exchanged. Jack even came up with the disguise from his army surplus hoard. They made their goodbyes and Eli was on the road by midnight. By the time the _kaffeeklatsch_ was convening at the Bighorn Café, he was ten hours into an estimated twenty-four hour journey, with necessary timeouts for naps and such and allowing for inconveniences such as flat tires. No matter its sad exterior and shredded upholstery, the thirty-year-old F150 pickup truck with Montana vintage plates ran like a top. All the lights and electrics worked and the tires were in good shape.

As the miles rolled on, Eli tried not to dwell too much on having left his friends behind without warning. He'd thought about leaving in Jack's care a message for Ronnie in a sealed envelope. Upon reflection he decided he'd just call her with an explanation and abject apologies as soon as he got to Angwin. Was he in love with her? He wasn't sure. He'd never been there before… but he sure did miss her. Would it _hurt_ if she went back to England and he never saw her again? He rather thought it would… but didn't know what to do about it. He wondered if Ronnie felt the same way… or was he just a fleeting promiscuous fling before moving on to her next conquest? Hopefully Illya had answers to that as well.

Eli studied on the month to come… his sister's wedding and being with his family again—some of whom he hadn't seen in years. And he _really_ needed to have a private confab with his granddad about those men. The more he thought about it, the surer he was that they weren't after him, _per se_, but had somehow discovered _through_ him a link with his grandfather. But how?


	17. Chapter 17

_Chapter 17:_** DEAD SKUNK IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD**

_**Tuesday, June 1st… Rama de Olivo**_

Two weeks on, the Bauer clan was settled into a routine, excepting Katie who'd had to return to San Francisco. She and Dennis had both put in for a month's leave of absence. He'd already begun his vacation while she still had a few loose ends to wrap up at the lab. When she returned she'd bring Eva's gown, which was undergoing a few minor alterations after the last fitting.

After an initial inspection tour of the facility and visits with neighboring vineries, Illya, Dennis and Chris found other activities to occupy their time—tennis, chess and riding. All were competent riders although they hadn't done much in recent years. They enjoyed swimming but, being fair-skinned, limited their time in the sun.

The Garcías had defined areas of responsibility. Carlos was in charge of all vinery operations, including outbuildings. With her degree in hotel and hospitality management from California Polytechnic, Tessa served as chatelaine of the hacienda itself. Though the upper floor and much of the downstairs rooms were kept closed off except when the owners or other family members were present, a house that large required extensive routine upkeep. Two permanent maids—Rosalia Hernández and Angela Bustillo, wives of vineyard workers—normally job-shared on alternate days, swapping out babysitting for each other's children. Tessa soon realized that—with the _entire_ family in residence—she'dneed _both_ women there every day just to do the cooking. Rosalia and Angela readily agreed as the extra income would be welcome. Still, extra hands would be needed to keep up with cleaning and laundry. To that end, Tessa hired from a temp agency two additional maids to come in on Tuesdays and Fridays.

When the wedding date was established six months prior, Tessa's offer to serve as event planner had been gratefully accepted. Though mother and daughter collaborated on the theme for the wedding—teal and peach—the bulk of actual activity had been turned over to Tessa.

From her office, Tessa launched into action. All wedding food would be prepared in-house. Three former school cafeteria workers were coaxed out of retirement to help out. A major _coup_ was persuading _Cordon Bleu_-credentialed Julia LeBoeuf to preside over the kitchen. The renowned chef was in her eighties but still cooked for friends on special occasions. A rental company was contracted to provide tables and tablecloths, chairs, tentage and any other hardware needed. College girlfriends of Eva's offered to provide a string quartet as their wedding present.

Sarah suggested they forego fresh flowers, which wouldn't fare well in the heat of an outdoor event—average daily temperatures in June in Napa Valley would be hovering in the upper eighties. Instead, decorations and table arrangements would be created from dried materials and artificial flowers, to be given away as table prizes. As lead designer at the florist business she managed at home, Sarah was put in charge. Maria, a talented calligrapher, would work on place cards. Elisa and Eva took over assembling favors—miniature bubble bottles and packets of mints packed into glitter-sprinkled bags of lacy organza, tied with ribbons. The smaller, informal dining room was designated as their workspace and declared off-limits to men and children.

############

_**A preprandial interruption…**_

The only two women abroad at dawn were Tessa and Rosalie, who'd arrived early to prepare breakfast. First at the sideboard were the menfolk—Carl, Bob, Dennis, Chris and Illya. They were still inspecting the contents of the chafing dishes when Alonzo Jones, head groundsman and all-around handyman, huffed in to advise that some grubby intruder had the effrontery to park his POS truck next to the party bus, having blatantly ignored the 'Private Drive - No Trespassing' sign at the turnoff from the county road. Carl and Bob put down their plates and dutifully trooped outside to deal with the offender, no doubt some vagrant looking for a handout or a migrant picker hoping for a job. Alonzo followed at a discreet distance, eyes like poached eggs on a black slate.

Approaching the vehicle, they stopped cold when the grimy driver lounging against a fender whipped off his watch cap and grinned. "Hope you clowns left me some breakfast!"

Carl regarded him critically. "Looks like some kinda grease monkey to me. Whaddya think, son?"

"Yep. Looks like Curious George, smells like Pepé LePew!" Bob fanned the air in front of his face. "Lord have mercy, Eli… couldn't you've gone around that critter instead of over it?"

"Give me a break, guys! I've been on the road thirty hours, give or take." Eli looked it, too, with a two-day stubble and bags under his eyes. "I'm beat. Didn't see that skunk until it was too late."

"I'd offer my hand, Eli, but I have to eat with it," Carl said with a straight face. "You can't come into the house stinking like that. Tessa'd likely set fire to you."

"Have to do something," Eli groaned. "I'm gonna fall over if I don't get some shuteye soon."

"Go on over to the equipment maintenance shed," Carl said kindly. "There's hot water and soap. Strip off and hose down, then scrub good. I'll be right behind you. But not too close."

Turning to his son, he said, "Bobby, go to the kitchen and fetch all the peroxide, baking soda and dish detergent you can find, then bring it to me. And a couple of towels. Oh… and find him some clothes, too. His own stuff'll have to be decontaminated and he can't come into the house naked."

"Yessir." Bob turned on his heel and loped off. García senior crooked a finger at his employee. "Lonnie, you drive that truck around out back and park it behind the stables. Way behind… where it can't be seen. Or smelled."

"Me, boss?" the black man squawked. "I be gettin' dat stink all o'er me."

"No you won't. Not in five minutes. Most of it seems to have stuck to Eli here."

"Yassuh," Alonzo conceded glumly.

############

_**Of skunks and rock stars…**_

Thirty minutes later, dried off and deodorized, Eli slipped into the boxers, chinos, tee shirt and sneakers Bob had lent him. They wore the same size and were forever swiping each other's clothing when sharing a roof. On the way back to the house, escorted by Bob, Eli stumbled and was saved from taking a header by Bob's hand under his elbow. "You really _are_ beat to snot. How about skipping breakfast and going straight to bed?"

"Sounds good to me. Is my room available?" They entered through the mudroom and crept up the old servants' staircase.

"Should be. Be quiet, though—all the women and kids are still sleeping."

Eli's room, thankfully unoccupied, was at the far end of the gallery. The clothes he'd just put on went on the floor and he crawled between the sheets. His last thoughts going under were _I left my cell phone in the truck… I was supposed to call Jack… I should call Ronnie… I was supposed to… _then it was lights out.

Downstairs, Illya was perturbed and a little anxious. "Did my eyes deceive me or was that apparition really my grandson?" he demanded of Carl when the latter returned to resume breakfasting. "I was looking out the window."

"No, they didn't and yes, it was."

"Where did he go, then?"

"He ran over a skunk. We had to take him away for decontamination."

"Say no more." Illya shuddered. "One wonders what God was thinking…"

"Thought you weren't a believer, Granddad?" Bob commented, coming into the room. He'd heard the old man had been a communist in his salad days, but not the particulars.

"I am older now. I believe in hedging my bets. Why is Elijah not with you?"

"He's pooped. Gone to bed. Oughta be okay by this evening."

"But he is well otherwise? He seemed, I do not know… different, somehow."

Father and son exchanged thoughtful looks.

"Must be the hair," Bob finally said. "Don't recall ever seeing it styled that way."

"Yeah… that must've been it," Carl mused. "You know, your granddad used to wear his hair like that, back in the sixties. He and your granny were big ole Beatles fans, except she wanted to look like Cher."

"In _Mexico?_ You kiddin' me?"

"They _did_ have television and radio and record players back in olden days. Not everyone drove a donkey and picked beans."

Bob mulled over that astonishing revelation as his father continued.

"Seriously. They saw 'em on _Ed Sullivan_ in 1964 and that was all she wrote. They paddled across the Rio Grande in an inner tube just to get to the Cow Palace for the concert."

"_What?_ Why've I never heard about this?"

"Pullin' your leg, son." Carl snorted and slapped him on the back. "They didn't know how to swim so they were obliged to enter the country legally. By bus, through Tijuana. Your _Abuela_ Alicia has photos in a shoebox somewhere."

Illya kept very, _very _quiet and tried not to laugh. If only they knew…

############

_**The next morning…**_

Eli slept right into evening and on through the night until Bob shook him awake in the early hours.

"C'mon. Get up."

"Why?" Eli mumbled groggily.

"'Cuz if we don't grab a bathroom now, we'll be SOL once the women and kids wake up."

"Good point." Eli muttered, struggling to extricate himself from the tangle of bedclothes. "What about yours in the cottage? Can't we use that one?"

"Water pressure's better here."

They rotated showering and shaving. As all of Eli's stuff was still in the truck, Bob had considerately brought his kit from the cottage so they could share.

"Do I still smell?" Eli asked as they dressed.

Bob leaned in for a sniff. "Well, maybe just a little. Slap on more aftershave and no one'll notice."

Padding barefoot past closed doors leaking waking up noises, the pair descended the main staircase, pausing at the bottom to put on socks and sneakers. Illya and Carl were greeting the sunrise by way of the sideboard, laden with covered chafing dishes. Delicious aromas swirled through the atmosphere and Eli was 'starvulating'—a nifty word he'd learned from Jack. Which reminded him he _had_ to get that phone.

Illya had never been an overly emotionally demonstrative man, even when the children and grandchildren were very small, although he didn't mind them sitting on his lap as he read to them. As he'd gotten older, he'd become more receptive to affectionate hugs—brief ones. This morning he put down his plate and held out his arms to his grandson.

"Elijah… where have you been these past weeks? What have you been doing?"

"It's a long story, Grandpa, but can we eat first? I'm so hungry I could chew on a blackboard eraser."

"Of course, of course. I am curious, though, why you were dressed as you were when you arrived. Did you come directly from some sort of costume party?"

"It was a party, all right. I promise I'll tell you about it later."

"Baba Ellie was worried to distraction you wouldn't make it here in time… or that something might have happened to you…"

"After we're done here, let's go for a walk. Just you and me. Got some stuff I need to talk to you about."


	18. Chapter 18

_Chapter 18:_** TELEPHONE TANGO**

_**Wednesday, June 2nd… 9:30am in Daly City, California / 5:30pm in Edinburgh, Scotland…**_

Katie finished her part at the lab much earlier than expected. On Monday afternoon she handed off what remained to an assistant and went straight home, looking forward to a long soak in the hot tub and an early night. The current project had been especially laborious, and between it and the wedding preparations, she was exhausted.

Arising refreshed the next morning, it occurred to her that she needn't rush back to Angwin. She wasn't expected back for another week anyway. Eva's regular text messages assured everything was under control and on track, and Eli had turned up safe and sound—so that was one worry off her mind. Why not start her vacation _now_ and take advantage of a rare opportunity to just chill out at home? With Dennis away, she could lounge around all day, munching junk food and reading or watching movies on DVDs… and then there were those long-ignored chores needing attention, like cleaning out closets.

In the course of one such purge Katie came across the boxes of genealogy notebooks and handwritten notes, untouched since moving to the States… and was seized by sudden ambition. Wednesday morning found her settled at her iMac, transcribing notes into digital format. At the bottom of the first box she came across the manila envelope containing Anton Romanov's letters, which Klara had forwarded when _Bobchi _Agata passed away. Kate had clipped her note of the address in Scotland to the envelope and that's as far as she'd gone. Now seemed a good time to return to that mystery. Even with university networking privileges, it took some digging to obtain the name of the home's current occupant. Further searches revealed a website, _Directory of Land Ownership in Scotland_, which listed previous and current owners and dates of ownership… which led to a brief history and photographs of the estate whimsically named 'Selkie Hall.'

The property was acquired and the manse built by Alexander Wharton McBride Stewart (designated a laird but not a nobleman) in the late 1700s. It was continuously occupied by successive Stewarts until they ran out of male inheritors in 1931. Ownership then passed to Victoria Mary Elizabeth Stewart Mallard although held in trust until she reached age thirty, by which time she'd produced a son and divorced the father. The estate was sold at auction in the late 1990s. There was no further personal information concerning the Mallards, _mère et fils_.

Thanks to the Internet, it was ridiculously easy to obtain a phone number for those current occupants. Checking the time differential, Katie notedit was 5:30pm in Edinburgh—far too early for the landed gentry to be dining. Now would be an appropriate time to call.

############

_**The conversation…**_

The cultured voice answering the phone dripped with clipped BBC received pronunciation rather than the rounder tones of Auld Reekie—no celebrated Scottish burr marked this lady's speech. "Selkie Hall. Mrs Elsinore Hampton speaking. May I ask who's calling, please?"

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hampton. My name is Doctor Kathryn Roman. I'm a genealogist in San Francisco… in the States? If you are not otherwise engaged, I would appreciate a few moments of your time to help me with inquiries into the Mallard family who used to own your home." _Just a little judicious fibbing there… 'geneticist' might come across as too clinical._

"I don't know I can be of much assistance, Doctor Roman," Mrs Hampton said pleasantly. "I met Mrs Mallard only a few times. I did hear of her recent passing at quite an advanced age. I knew Donald very well when we were younger, but our paths have not crossed in years, I'm sorry to say."

"Would that be Mrs Mallard's son?"

"Yes. Doctor Donald Mallard. He and my husband Paul and George Atherton were schoolmates. Donnie and Georgie were best friends but Paudgie—Paul, that is—ran with their set."

"And he was the only son, you're sure?"

"Oh yes… he often wished for a little brother or sister but that never happened."

"Would you happen to have contact information for Mr… er…Doctor Mallard? That would be an immense help."

"I don't, no. But my husband would. If you'd care to give me your particulars, I'll pass them along when he's home."

"I'd be ever so grateful, Mrs Hampton. Oh… just one more question…would you happen to know Mr Mallard's birth year?"

"Why yes… it's 1933… same as George and Paul—oddly enough, all three were born in September."

_Lady, you have no idea _how_ odd._

Kate relayed her email address and cell phone number, adding, "If you or Mr Atherton wish to check my credentials I'm also a member of 'LinkedIn,' the networking site for professionals." She carefully spelled out her name for Mrs Hampton. They exchanged goodbyes and hung up.

_It couldn't possibly be this easy, could it?_

############

_**6:00pm in Georgetown, Washington DC / 11:00pm in Edinburgh…**_

Ducky rarely called out of work unless he was down with the flu or something equally debilitating. But today he had. Lied like a rug to Gibbs, claiming a massive headache. Jethro offered to furnish hydrocodone tablets from his private and more than likely illicit supply. In the background, Ducky could hear Ziva and Tony arguing which version of chicken soup was better—Israeli or Italian—with Abby blaring that miso was best. McGee and Palmer were trumpeting that hot toddies trumped soup. Ducky quickly discouraged visitors… might not be headache… might be contagious, whatever it was… blah blah blah.

"Please, do _not_ call and do _not_ come over to check on me!"

Mrs Benefield hovered, privately debating if she should whip up a pot of chicken broth… just in case.

Asking her to please _not_ disturb him, Ducky shut himself in the study and went online, reading everything he could find on Russian expatriates living in Great Britain during the late 1920s and early 1930s. He pored over the remaining journals in a futile quest for any crumb his mother might have written concerning the lost child, but she never again mentioned Anton or the missing baby.

At noon Mrs B tapped on the door and poked her head in to ask if she should bring in tea and sandwiches.

"Yes, please."

Whenever the phone _did_ ring, he didn't answer if it wasn't the call he was waiting for. Every time he checked the clock he added five hours… the time it would be in Edinburgh. How long would it take the Athertons and Hamptons to eat dinner, anyway?

At five Mrs B reappeared to advise she was leaving for day and his dinner was in the oven… unless he preferred something lighter—such as chicken soup, which was in the fridge.

"No, thank you. Goodnight, Mrs B."

"Goodnight, Doctor Mallard."

If he heard the words _chicken_ or _soup_ again today, he would probably vomit.

When his phone tinkled 'Scotland the Brave' at 6:00pm, he nearly jumped out of his chair. This time it was the _right_ call.

############

_**The conversation…**_

"George?"

"Donald? Have I called at a bad time?"

"Not at all. I was polishing my golf clubs."

"I'll make it quick. I have good news."

"The crate?" Ducky tried not to sound too excited."

"It was there. Paudgie and I used a chisel to pry off the lid. The ledgers are right on top."

"Thank you, George. And Paudgie as well."

"Now that we've established that, what would you like to have done with it? I can easily arrange to have it shipped over… or just the ledgers, if you'd rather."

"I'd like to have the crate, of course. By the least expensive method… find out how much and I'll wire you the amount."

"Will do, my friend."

"George… I don't want to impose on you unduly… but there is one more favor you could do for me."

"Fire away."

"Could you go back to Hampton's and get your hands on the ledgers for the years 1931,'32 and '33?"

"Not a problem, Donnie. What do you need?"

"I'd like you to look through them for the name 'Anton Romanov.' " Ducky spelled it out for him.

"Is that the relative your friend is researching?"

"Yes. Would it be possible to scan any pages on which he shows up… if he shows up… and forward them to me?"

"Entirely possible. And sooner than you think… the crate's here at our house."

"What? How did you manage that?"

"Dinner was delayed. Their cook had taken ill and had to go home. Elsie was in such a dither Doris made us go over early so she could help out. Poor old thing can barely boil water herself! While they were figuring how the cooker worked, Paudgie and I took the opportunity to go up to the attic. He had two of his groundsmen haul the thing downstairs and deliver it to our place when we went home."

"How marvelous!"

"I'll get started on our little project tomorrow."

"Will you call and let me know if the man turns up?"

"I will. Well, my dearly beloved is calling me to bed so I'll say goodnight."

"Yes… and thank you again, Georgie… from the bottom of my heart."

"Donnie, wait… one more thing before we ring off… a rather eerie coincidence, I must say…"

"Yes? What is it?"

"As we were dining, Elsie remembered a phone call she'd taken earlier… some female claiming to be a genealogist looking for information on the Mallards… a Doctor Roman. Must be another relation of your friend's missing antecedent. If you've something to write with I have her contact details."

Ducky had trouble breathing as they exchanged goodnights and broke the connection. With trembling fingers he looked up the phone number he'd been given, stunned to find the area code was for San Francisco. His head reeled as he picked up the still-warm unit and entered the number.

_This couldn't possibly be this easy._

############

_**6:30pm in Georgetown / 3:30pm in Daly City…**_

"Roman residence. This is Katie."

"Good afternoon. Am I speaking with Doctor Kathryn Roman?"

"Yes, this is she."

"My name is Donald Mallard. I've just received a call from George Atherton in Edinburgh. I understand you've an interest of a genealogical nature in my family?"

After a pregnant pause came the reply. "That would be the understatement of the century."

"Pardon me?"

"Doctor Mallard, you have no idea of the enormity of this… um… development."

"Actually, I believe I do. And please call me Donald. I suspect we're already beyond formal address."

"I should say so! And I'm Katie. You go first."

"Well… Katie. Going by your name, would I be correct in assuming we're both interested in the same individual?"

"If you mean Anton Romanov, the answer is yes."

"That would be the man. Katie, it is terribly important to me—for personal reasons—that we compare our research. However, it's not something to be discussed over the phone. Is there any possibility we could meet in person? I'm in Washington D.C."

"I agree, it's too involved for phone calls or even emails. I'm in San Francisco… bogged down at the moment—my daughter's getting married in a few weeks. Is there any way you could come to me?"

"I hesitate to label the matter as urgent, but…"

"In all honesty I can't claim it is, either… after all, I began researching my husband's antecedents nearly a decade ago. However, only yesterday I made a discovery that suggests you and I may be closely related through my own bloodline." _Very_ _closely._ _More closely than you could ever imagine._ Katie tread cautiously. The names Bauer or Kuryakin might not mean anything to the gentleman on the other end but she couldn't chance parlous revelations this early in the association.

"I'm intrigued… and anxious to resolve this mystery as soon as possible."

"Roman is my married name, shortened from Romanov… but there are other connections. It's complicated."

_Other_ _connections?_ "How soon could we meet? I could fly there at the drop of a hat… if you could carve out a day for me?"

"Donald… trust me. This is going to take more than a day. Lots more. And I want you to meet my father."

"Your father's there… in San Francisco?" A growing conviction twisted Ducky's gut.

"My parents don't live in the States—they're here for the wedding. When do you think you could come?"

"How about Saturday… if that's not too inconvenient?"

"Not at all." _What am I saying? I'm not ready for this!_ "I can meet you at San Francisco International. It's not far from my home."

They concluded the conversation with Ducky promising to call back later that evening with flight details. After going online and securing an early morning reservation, he called right back before turning in, worn out with tension. On her side of the continent, Katie, too, was exhausted… with exhilaration… and worry that the event she had just set in motion might blow up in her face. _Too late, old girl. You started this ball rolling… now you have to chase it down._


	19. Chapter 19

_Chapter 19:_** TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES**

_**Thursday, June 3rd… Rama de Olivo Vineyards…**_

The walk-and-talk didn't happen that morning… or that afternoon—too many demands on Illya's time, among other interruptions. Lisa decided he needed to accompany her on a shopping foray to Santa Rosa. Dennis offered to borrow a car and drive them, as he had errands of his own. Bob, Chris and Aidan opted to go fishing in one of the many lakes dotting the estate, packing a picnic lunch prepared by Angela and (unknown to Aidan's mom) several six-packs of Coors.

Armed with a large spray bottle of Febreze, Eli went out to his truck. Holding his breath, he grabbed the phone before dousing the reeking upholstery. The contents of the duffels were spread out on the grass and sprayed with the rest of the odor eliminator. Hunkering down with his back against a gnarled olive tree, Eli was preparing to check his text messages when all hell broke loose in the paddock.

############

_**A bad idea gets worse…**_

Rosalia and Angela had agreed to alternate overseeing pool play when they had time to spare, though had balked at being around horses. But today they were too busy in the kitchen, getting a head start on lunch and supper. Likewise, Aidan had agreed to catch up the ponies and supervise the exercise whenever Aisling, Noah and Olivia clamored to go riding… or swim in the pool. But Aidan wasn't available, either.

When Maria suggested that Aisling could babysit for a few hours, Sarah declared she wasn't comfortable with the idea of a thirteen-year-old _child_ watching over her precious offspring. Instead, she sternly instructed Noah and Olivia to play within calling distance and stay away from the pool and stables until an _adult_ was available.

Aisling was highly miffed. Too young to mind a couple of little kids, was she, when she was practically grown up herself? Well, those restrictions didn't apply to her, did they? Helping herself to apples from the kitchen when the cooks had their backs turned, Aisling headed for the stable, where she lured and haltered one of the Welsh ponies. She would've preferred one of the 'real' horses but a pony was the lesser of forbidden fruit. The horses were older and certainly gentle enough for children. However, one of Carl's rules for _everyone_, including himself, was that no one rode without a companion—whether just in the paddock or out on the trails.

Noah and Olivia soon noticed that Aisling was having fun and they weren't. It wasn't long before they gravitated toward the paddock, begging her to catch up the other pony so they could ride, too. Though she should've known better than to contravene Aunt Sarah's orders, Aisling went along with her cousins' pleas. No one was paying any attention, really… what could go wrong?

Three riders and only two mounts were bound to cause trouble… and did. When Aisling and Noah were slow to give up a turn to Olivia, the latter pelted Aisling's pony's rump with a handful of pebbles. The animal shot off across the paddock, colliding with the one Noah was riding. Both ponies went down, throwing their riders. Noah commenced howling, Aisling lay on the ground screaming, and Olivia was cowering against the fence, bawling.

Eli hared around the corner of the stable, only to be slammed into by Carl exiting the breezeway at a run, followed by Alonzo. Knocked off his feet, Eli's head connected with the doorjamb and he was out cold. Racing into the paddock, Carl shouted over his shoulder for Alonzo to fetch the mothers. Pausing to see to the ancillary victim and for lack of a better idea, Alonzo upended a bucket of cold water on Eli's head.

Knocking aside the messenger, Sarah and Maria charged out the back door, leaving in their wake Tessa, Eva, and the maids in a slipstream of glitter and ribbon trim. By the time they reached the paddock, Carl had determined that Noah and Olivia were shaken but unhurt but Aisling most likely had a broken arm.

Carl did his best to calm down the women, explaining that rather than wait for paramedics it would be quicker to make the ten-minute drive to the small county hospital in Angwin. Gently scooping up Aisling, he carried her around to the parking area and deposited her in the second seat of the three-row estate van. Maria climbed in, with Sarah and her two in the third seat. Flanked by Eva and Tessa, Eli wobbled along behind, holding to his forehead a tea towel Rosalia had brought from the kitchen.

"You, too, Eli. Get in," Carl said.

"I'm okay. Just a little woozy. I'll be fine."

"I said get in," Carl ordered. "You're bleeding like a stuck pig and you might be concussed. Lonzo, you check over the ponies, make sure they're okay."

"Shouldn't I call Dennis… or Chris?" Tessa asked.

"No. There's nothing they can do and they'd just be in the way. You hold the fort, okay? I'll call in and let you know what's happening."

############

_**An emergency room imbroglio…**_

While waiting to be seen in the emergency room, the mothers managed to extract from their offspring exactly what had happened and who'd done what to whom. When Noah blabbed that Aisling hogged the pony, Olivia eventually admitted to throwing pebbles. The sisters-in-law began flinging accusations with regard to parenting deficiencies, _vis-à-vis_ (a) the importance of being taught to share, (b) the importance of being taught to mind and (c) the importance of instilling in one's child a proper regard for the consequences of _not_ minding. In no time at all they were on the verge of a hair-pulling contest when Carl intervened and separated the two.

Even in a small hospital on a light day, the downside of being a walk-in patient versus a gurney case is that one keeps getting shunted to the caboose end of the treatment train. Hours went by in the waiting room until their admission to cubicles, where they waited some more until harried doctors could get around to them. Eli and Aisling were hustled off to x-ray. He was cleared and wheeled back to emergency for stitches. She was taken to orthopedics for application of a splint to a buckle fracture of the ulna. As a precaution, a nurse looked over Noah and Olivia**.** Other than being dirty, hungry and irritable, they were fine.

Waiting for Aisling's turn in ortho, Maria perused promotional material on the superior qualities of fiberglass versus traditional plaster and Gore-Tex cast liner instead of cotton padding. She was particularly interested in the efficacy of DayPro waterproof cast covers that claimed absolute watertightness. Querying the technician about that, she was told no, they weren't up to speed on newer techniques. Sorry. And no, they couldn't make do with one of those soft removable casts. Sorry about that, too. It would have to be that good old standby—plaster of Paris… which meant no swimming. Maria foresaw a long miserable month with a bored, cranky teenage daughter who couldn't even go swimming with her cousins.

The atmosphere in the van on the ride home was seething with pent-up anger and frustration. The fishermen and shoppers had been brought up to speed upon returning home hours earlier. Relieved that his son wasn't too badly hurt, though addled with pain medication, Dennis insisted Eli go to his room for a lie-down.

Dinner conversation that evening was subdued at the sparsely attended table. Maria and Sarah were both sulking upstairs with their injured/disgraced children. Tessa took trays up to Maria and Aisling. Chris delivered food to his wife and children, opining to Sarah that they needed to have a discussion about discipline. Sarah put the blame on Aisling—at thirteen she should have known better than to disobey. Maybe, Chris countered, but at eleven Noah should _also_ have known better than to go along. And Olivia, at eight, _certainly_ knew better than to throw rocks at a pony. When he suggested their kids should at least be put on room restriction for a few days, and that Olivia should apologize to Aisling and her mother, Sarah turned her pique on him. He sighed and left the room wondering which of the sofas downstairs was most comfortable.

_**Nocturnal admissions…**_

Eli woke up to an unnaturally quiet house, hungry and thinking about those text messages he had yet to read… and the fact that his phone was still under the olive tree where he'd dropped it—probably out of juice by now… and the _other_ fact that all his clothes were still spread out on the grass. The borrowed clothes worn earlier were on the floor, caked with dried mud and manure. Flipping the switch on the bedside table lamp, the first thing he noticed was his phone, plugged into its charger… then the stack of laundry on a chair. Some considerate soul had not only collected his phone but delivered it and the rest of his stuff to the house, where another Good Samaritan had washed, dried and folded the clothes… and some other angel of mercy had brought them into his room without awakening him. Possibly that same angel had left the glass of water and bottle of Tylenol next to the phone.

Popping two pills and slipping into a tee shirt and board shorts, Eli padded downstairs to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. While wolfing it down he became aware of muted voices out on the pool deck and decided to investigate. There he found his father and grandfather lounging in deck chairs, doing vodka shots in the dark.

"Mind if I join you?" Without waiting for an answer Eli slumped into a chair at Illya's other side.

"What are you doing here?" the father snapped. "You should be in bed, not wandering around."

Taking a more sympathetic avenue, the grandfather asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Got the mother of all headaches. Just took some Tylenol."

"Nevertheless, you shouldn't be up," Dennis said.

"Oh, leave him be, Denny," Illya reproached mildly. "He has had a rough day."

"Been a rough month, Grandpa."

"Which reminds me… you wished to speak with me this morning, privately?"

"Should I leave?" Dennis inquired frostily, feeling left out. "Or is this something a father's better off not knowing?"

"No, Dad. It's okay. In fact, you might as well hear it, too."

Even with a mild buzz on, Eli related his activities of the past month in a fairly articulate fashion—for the moment omitting a few salient elements and wondering how long before his omniscient grandfather winkled them out. Not long, as it happened. Illya listened without interruption until Eli concluded with his departure from Montana following the performance, then…

"I presume there is a reason for your having traveled in disguise." A question, rather than a statement.

"I'm being followed. Have been… since New York."

"Are you sure about that?"

Eli could sense, if not see, his father struggling to refrain from commentary. "On the plane to New York I got this creepy feeling I was being watched, you know? I thought I'd shook it… them, him, whatever… off in Denver, but then…" He went on to tell about the two men appearing in Goat Rock and questioning Jack… and how he and the old man concocted the escape plan.

"You'd better not have broken any laws," Dennis muttered in an ominous tone, "… because…"

"No, sir. I'm dead sure about that."

"Please, Dennis… let the boy continue," Illya cautioned.

"I didn't fall off a beet wagon yesterday, Grandpa. They're following me to get to _you_. What I don't understand is _why._ The world's changed a lot since you… since those days."

"Wait a minute… hold on here," Dennis cut in sharply. "Illya, didn't we agree to bury that part of your life to protect the children… that they weren't ever to know anything?"

"Dad, I know all about the Life and Times of Illya Nicoleyvich Kuryakin." Eli heard the hiss of his father's sharp intake of breath. "Grandpa told me years ago."

"Elijah is the exception," Illya countered. "He is a special case, as you should be well aware by now. So be quiet and let him speak."

Dennis spoke again, clearly upset. "Now that the cat's out of the bag… I've asked myself the same question. _Why?_ Why can't you finally come in from the cold and be yourself again? Surely what you knew forty years ago no longer applies in today's global affairs."

After a long period of silence, Illya said, "It is not so much _what_ I knew, but _who_ I knew. Many of the men and women with whom I dealt are still living—have risen to positions of prominence and power, not all of them with good intent. If their true identities and backgrounds were to become known…"

Son and grandson maintained a respectful silence as Illya seemed to be gathering his thoughts. "In some ways it _is_ an entertaining notion, almost flattering, that people are still searching for me after all this time… but not one conducive to peace of mind or the welfare of my family. I was never _that_ important. There were hundreds of other operatives just like me, in cities all over the world. In any case, no benefit derives from resurrecting Kuryakin from the grave. He was an unhappy man with no family and no one to mourn his disappearance. Elijah Bauer, on the hand, _is_ a happy man with a well-established family and wishes to keep it that way."

"Illya," Dennis ventured tentatively. "You're overlooking something, I fear."

"What might that be?"

"If these persons followed Eli from New York to Montana, how can we be sure they won't track him here?"

"We cannot. That might prove to be a problem."

"I may be just a humble scientist who doesn't possess your secret agent spy skills, but shouldn't you be concerned with _how_ they knew to follow Eli in the first place from wherever?"

"I can assure you I _am_ concerned, now that prospect has reared its ugly head… but until we have figured out how to deal with these bogeymen, let us not share this problem with the ladies… not yet, anyway. What we need to do is examine how a connection might have occurred. Eli… let us start with you and this Misha you went to see. How do you know him?"

############

_**Loose lips sink secrets…**_

Eli cleared his throat. "Well… back in Kyiv, when I was still in that music school, there was a dance academy nearby. Between us there was a coffee shop where we hung out after class… and there was this kid from the dance school—Mikhail Rostov… we got to be really good friends and we talked, mostly about _his_ family."

Illya's almost imperceptible reaction went unnoticed by Dennis though Eli caught it. _The name means something to him._

"Misha's dad is KGB or whatever it's called these days. According to Misha, his dad's bitter and mean as a snake—he'd never forgiven _his_ father for abandoning him and his older brother after their folks divorced. Misha's grandmother brought up her two sons on her own, even changing their last names from Kuryakin to Rostov. I guess I must have mentioned the… um… coincidence… about names, I mean. We laughed about it… said maybe we were related and started calling each other 'cousin.' "

Dennis muttered, "See there, Illya… an excellent reason why you should never have told him anything! Although it shouldn't have mattered as we left the country shortly afterward."

"Except that we kept in touch," Eli admitted. "Even after he came to America… to that school in Montana. That's why I went there—to visit… only he'd just dropped out and left for New York."

Illya downed another shot of vodka, endeavoring to keep his hand and voice steady. "Elijah… do you remember the names of Misha's parents?"

"Sure… Sergei and Polina. Never met 'em, though."

Illya was unable to stifle an expletive in his native tongue. "The thing is… you really _are_ cousins."

############

_**Illya expounds…**_

Dennis broke the stunned silence that followed. "Illya, I know you were married before Elise, and that there were children. Katie told me. But that's all I know. I was under the impression you had no further contact with them. She said it's best not to bring up the subject."

"Same here, Grandpa," Eli said. "Mom told me not to ask questions."

Illya knew he couldn't leave it at that… couldn't leave them with the belief he had abandoned his sons in cold blood.

"It is true I've had no _direct_ contact. But I had… _still have_… sympathetic contacts in Russia who have funneled information over the years—their whereabouts and what has become of them, what they are doing now."

"How's that possible?" Dennis queried, confused. "I thought the KGB disbanded in '91, when the union broke apart. And if 'Kuryakin' is missing and presumed dead…?"

"Ah… but Elijah Bauer is _not_ dead and _he_ has resources. The last time I saw my sons Ivan and Sergei, in 1959, they were seven and five, respectively. I was still KGB then, and about to be seconded to UNCLE. Let us get one thing straight… contrary to whatever Mikhail Rostov was led to believe, I did _not_ voluntarily give up my family. I went where I was told to go. My _curriculum vitae_ as presented to UNCLE glossed over the fact I had a wife and children, insinuating that I was divorced. Otherwise, UNCLE would have rejected me. Perhaps my overlords foresaw that Nadia would not accept the situation… and who could blame her? She _did_ divorce me and changed her name to Darya Rostov. I did not contest the divorce nor try to find her and my sons. Again… orders from my superiors. One did _not_ question their decisions."

"So what happened to them… Ivan and Sergei?" Eli asked softly.

"Ivan is a successful thoracic surgeon and a family man. Sergei—Mikhail's father—has been with the intelligence community since 1979. Make no mistake… whatever Bush and Yeltsin cooked up at Camp David, the Cold War did _not_ end in 1991. It was papered over and tied with pretty ribbon to assuage the alarmists and calm the citizenry of the United States, and then it went underground. The KGB did _not_ go out with a whimper. It transmogrified into a different beast: the SVR RF. You can bet your last _ruble_ that a good many of the old guard carried over to the new agency with balls intact, and that includes sleeper agents and operatives here in this country."

"What are you saying, Grandpa?"

"I was never officially released from KGB. One never is. At best I am, to them, a sleeper who can be activated at any time. At worst I am a defector… a rogue agent who must be eliminated. To Sergei I am the heartless son of a bitch who abandoned him. The interest there is personal… a hunger for revenge.

"Sergei is high up in SVR hierarchy these days. He has the power to further his own agenda… including sending agents to satisfy a need for retribution… if that is what is happening here. Never underestimate a man with unlimited resources and a deep-seated grudge."

Dennis whistled. "Ooooooh… I should think Medvedev wouldn't be too keen on that sort of abuse of authority, what with his anti-corruption reform policies and all."

"Be that as it may," Illya said with a tinge of sarcasm, "even the current Leader of the Free World cannot root out every single bad apple in his governmental barrel."

"Do you think Misha talked to his father at some point," Dennis queried, "and Sergei put a tail on Eli?"

"Could be," Eli responded, "But this may have nothing to do with my relationship to Sergei."

"What, then?" Dennis persisted. "I don't understand."

"I repeat… when you are KGB, it is for life. They never relinquish their hold on an agent."

"But… you went to UNCLE?"

"I was on _indefinite loan_ to UNCLE… it was a political ploy. I remained a Soviet citizen. They could… and did… recall me at any time of their choosing. When I left UNCLE I was expected to immediately return to Moscow… but I did not. Instead, I claimed asylum status and applied for American citizenship. In the KGB slash SVR's view I am a defector and there is no statute of limitations on that. Officially, there is nothing they can do about it. Unofficially, on the other hand, if they can get me out of the country, alive… that would be a major coup. Captured defectors are sentenced to execution or life imprisonment. Do you understand _now?_"

"I get it… but it's difficult to believe such is possible in this country, what with Homeland Security and all."

"Believe it!" Illya scoffed. "Homeland Security is so busy trolling for illegal Mexican and South American immigrants and repelling Middle Eastern terrorists they have quite forgotten there are former Soviet sleeper agents and spies already in place under every rock."

Illya's head was throbbing and the bottle was empty anyway. He got out of his lounge chair. "I have heard all I can absorb for one night. I suggest we three sleep on it and put our heads together in the morning."

His companions agreed and they went indoors as the grandfather clock standing in the hall struck ten. Eli didn't drop off immediately. Instead, he tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable as well as quieten the maelstrom of activity in his head. Among the thoughts briefly bobbing to the surface before being sucked down again were those unread text messages. By now there were probably a ton of them from Jack and Ronnie.


	20. Chapter 20

_Chapter 20: _** THE THREADS THAT BIND**

_**Friday, June 4th… 5:00am…**_

The house was still quiet with no sounds of activity when Eli awoke. One bathroom break and couple of Tylenol later, he returned to his room and keyed up his now fully charged phone. As anticipated, the text messages had piled up with increasing frequency.

_From Ronnie, pleading…_

WHERE R U?

JACK NOT TALKING

SAD UR GONE. MISS U.

11 DAYS. U NOT CALL. SNIFF

And finally…

FBI HERE ASKING ABOUT U & MISHA.

WHAT GOING ON?

U ALRIGHT?

SCARED. PLS CALL

_From Jack, agitated…_

NO CONTACT NOT GOOD

MEN BACK W/THREATS

CALL ME

CIA HERE W/QUESTIONS

WHAT HAPPENING?

IMPORTANT HEAR FROM U SOON.

_FBI? CIA? WTF?_ Eli considered burrowing right back under the covers and putting a pillow over his head. He owed both of them apologies… excuses… explanations. But how could he possibly explain the current situation… or mitigate the troubles in which they were now involved, thanks to him? Would it be better if he simply disappeared from their lives with no further contact… or worse? _Think! Think! Did I ever mention where I was from… or where I was going… or the name of the vinery? They both have my phone number but they couldn't have left voice messages because my inbox was full up with voicemail from family trying to pin me down…. My bad for not checking earlier… before I call back I'd better run all this by Grandpa._

############

_**10:00am… Elise smells a rat…**_

Chris and Aidan and several of the younger vineyard workers kicked around a soccer ball on the front lawn. The grinning, diminutive Mexicans ran rings around the taller, heavier Russian-Austrian-American and Russian-Austrian-Irish-American.

Although they'd had a whole day to cool off, Maria and Sarah were still nursing grudges and being snippy with each other at the craft table. Tessa and Eva sat between them, both devoutly wishing Katie was there. As the elder sister/sister-in-law, Katie brooked no nonsense when it came to family squabbles—she'd have that pair straightened out in a New York minute! But she'd called Thursday evening to say she had some _other_ unfinished business to tidy up over the weekend and couldn't say for sure what day she'd be driving up.

Illya, Dennis and Eli went fishing. At least, that's what they _said_ they were going to do. Elise had her suspicions that something was going on that her beloved wasn't telling her. Needing to think without distractions, she went upstairs, telling the others she felt like sitting quietly and reading a book. _Illyusha has never been interested in fishing… never!_

############

_**11:00am… Illya's advice to the lovelorn…**_

"Grandpa, you've got a bite," Eli said. He was biding his time, waiting for the right moment to bring up the other factors contributing to this fiasco.

"What?" Illya's mind was elsewhere, ruminating on the very real possibility that he was being stalked… and what could be done about it. This wasn't his first rodeo. In the old days he was always on the alert, often on the defensive. He'd not kept a tally on how many times he'd been captured. Nor could he state with any certainty the number of times tables were turned on the hunters and he got them before they got him. But back then he always carried a weapon and now he didn't.

"Your bobber's bobbing. You've got a fish on the line."

So far they'd reeled in five smallmouth bass, three bluegills and one catfish. None of the dilettante anglers were especially good at the sport and weren't enthused over the prospect of gutting and scaling. The unhappy fish were undulating on a stringer in the water. They decided to release them back into the lake.

Not expecting the fishermen home for lunch, Rosalia had packed a picnic basket and ice chest, which was stowed in the cargo box of the electric club carryall Carl said they were welcome to use. Spreading out a utility tarp, they sat down cross-legged, facing each other. Eli handed out sandwiches, chips and beer.

"What'll you tell Grandma when we come back without any fish?"

"That they were not biting."

Eli pretended to be dumbfounded. "You mean… _lie_ to Baba Ellie?"

"In the interest of domestic harmony, one may at times judiciously choose to withhold infelicitous information," Illya intoned with a straight face, following up with a bolt from the blue**.** "Elijah, do you know how to use a gun?"

"Uh, sort of," Eli mumbled, derailed by the abrupt switch in subjects. "Done a little target practice, that's all."

"What about you, Dennis? Have you ever fired a weapon?"

Illya's son-in-law looked positively shocked. "No. Never. Occupational exemption from national service. Never had a reason to learn."

"You do now. Both of you." Illya wore an expression neither of the others had ever seen before—grim, calculating and cold as ice.

"But… why?" Dennis sputtered.

Eli didn't have to ask. "It's about those men, Dad. The ones who might be my uncles… or sent by him. We might have to defend ourselves."

"Tomorrow we start target practice," Illya stated. "You and every man on the estate."

Eli realized he could no longer put off telling about the possible UNCLE involvement… and disseminating the _newest_ bad news. It had to be now, before they returned to the house.

"Wait!" he commanded as Dennis made to start packing up their picnic debris. "There's something else I gotta tell you… uh… there's this girl…"

"Might've known," Dennis grumbled.

"Long story short, her name's Veronica and she's the granddaughter of Mark Slate and April Dancer. They were there at the recital, front row—Ronnie pointed them out through a slot in the curtain. They're the same couple in the photo with you and Mr Solo."

"I see," Illya said. "And why is that a problem?"

"Grandpa… _look_ at me. Ronnie made a big deal about me being a clone of the man in that photo. Her granddad's got it framed and hanging in his study. They kept staring at me and whispering. That's why I didn't go to the reception and hightailed it out of town that same night."

Eli really _really_ didn't want to tell the next part… about the text messages.

When acquainted with their substance, Illya frowned with annoyance. "That certainly puts a different complexion on our problem. We cannot very well go around shooting at government officials. I should not be at all surprised if UNCLE starts nosing around as well."

Dennis groaned, shuddering. "Once those alphabet agencies get involved, we'll all be interrogated and deported… or disappear into one of those CMUs."

"What're CMUs?" Eli asked.

"Communications Management Units," Illya answered. "America's answer to Lubyanka and Lefortovo—prisons within prisons where terrorists, spies and subversives are immured with extremely limited or no access to the outside world. Supposed to be secret, which—considering they're _government_ facilities—pretty much constitutes an oxymoron along the lines of 'military intelligence.' "

"I'm afraid you've lost me, Grandpa," Eli said.

"Never mind. Not important."

"We're in bad trouble and you're making jokes?" Dennis griped. "You have to _do_ something!"

"I _am_ doing something, Dennis. I am thinking." Illya didn't seem to realize this last comment had slipped out in Ukrainian. He did that sometimes… but usually only when engaged in deep conversation with adult family, and sometimes they responded in kind. Elise was not conversant in that language although she could get the gist of whatever they were talking about.

Eli was always amazed at his elders' facile flow from one language to another without pausing to change gears. Although he understood and spoke Ukrainian fluently and often did with Illya, just to keep in practice, he found it increasingly difficult to _think_ in it… and no longer dreamed in it. As close as he was to his grandfather, he'd never wondered if the same were true for Illya.

Now completely assimilated into the American lifestyle, Eli couldn't begin to imagine what his grandfather's teenage and young adult years had been like under Soviet Russia's totalitarian regime. Illya's descriptions of nomadic life among the gypsies were fantastical tales akin to white-boy-kidnapped-by-Red-Indians so popular with American children brought up on tales of the Wild West.

Until entering into his granddad's confidence, Eli took for granted Illya's periodic bouts of moodiness and withdrawal, his emotional repression._ Baba Ellie says these are typical personality traits Russians are born with and to pay it no mind. Mom says she used to fret that it might be some sort of depressive disorder but now accepts Baba's probably right. Of course (Mom says), one must keep in mind that Baba's pre-war upbringing was in a country renowned for emotive displays of artistic expression. Those who didn't feel free to laugh, love, sing and dance with gay abandon were regarded with suspicion—the English and Germans, for instance… and Russians. Why on earth did she marry one?_

Illya admitted more than once that, yes, he occasionally—and somewhat irrationally—pined for the homeland he would never see again… even though for him it had been a place of dislocation and discouragement, pain and the horrors of war, both hot and cold. And, yes, he occasionally wondered about his birth family… if there was even a remote chance of ever finding out who they were.

_In fifty-something years, I'll look as he does now_, Eli thought. _But I'll never be the man he is today._

Recalling the question he'd been meaning to ask about the text messages, he now put it forward.

Illya lifted an eyebrow. "Just how deeply are you… er… _involved_ with the young lady? What I mean to say is, without going into vulgar detail… was this just a passing fancy or more of an emotional entanglement?"

"Um… I'm not sure. It started out as just fun… but… now… I don't know what to think. I've never felt like this before. I miss her. I really do," Eli admitted quietly. "I don't want to give her up but I don't know what to do about it. I'm sure she's more than a little upset with me right now for running away like I did."

"Omigod… the boy thinks he's in love!" Dennis burst out with a laugh. "The little head is leading the big head by the nose."

Illya held up a hand. "Now Dennis, do not belittle your son. He is not a child. He is older than you were when you fell in love with my daughter… and married her without her parents' consent, I might add."

Turning to his grandson Illya said, "A man's feelings are serious business and deserve serious consideration. Have you met the parents?"

Eli shook his head. "No, sir. Her mother's deceased and her father's pretty much out of the picture. She was raised by her grandparents and… well… you know who _they_ are. You'd have to meet them eventually and I don't see how that could work."

"He's right about that, Illya," Dennis cut in. "They'd out you and then where would we all be?"

"Not necessarily." Illya stroked his chin. "You forget we were trained to keep secrets. And our lives depended on relying on one another for backup."

"That was then… this is now. How reliable are friendships you haven't maintained for thirty years?" Dennis demanded. "Are you willing to take that chance?"

"I am not willing to discount Eli's future if he truly loves this woman. Eli, are you asking for my… our… advice?"

"I guess I am, yes. But I don't want to be the one who tears apart our family."

"Oh… I do not believe it will come to that. So here is what I recommend: Respond to your young lady soon… make that very soon. Find out if it is also her desire to continue your association. If the answer is no, you must accept that with grace and dignity."

"What if it's yes?"

"Then we must arrange to meet her grandparents. Discreetly, of course. Elise already knows April and I have met Alice though never knew her well. Beyond that, I cannot predict. That is the best I can offer, Eli. What say you?"

Eli glanced at his father, whose expression was one of disagreement, then back to his grandfather.

"I say thank you, Grandpa."

They got up, folded up the tarp, and settled themselves in the carryall for the trip back to the house. Dennis drove and Illya turned sideways in his seat to carry on talking with Eli in the back seat.

"Now… about the other camels in the tent…"

"Excuse me? Camels?"

"When you speak with your young lady—assuming you do—and that other fellow… Jack?"

"Jack Harper."

"Yes. Him. Ask if any of those inquiring gentlemen left calling cards with their names and contact information. They generally do when interviewing persons of interest. It might be helpful to know with whom we are dealing."

"Illya… surely everyone you used to know in those organizations has retired or died by now," Dennis commented.

"True. But it would be nice to know something of these men before we face them in person."

"Don't tell me," Dennis muttered. "You have resources…"

"Indeed I do."


	21. Chapter 21

_Chapter 21:_** THE GREAT COSMIC COINCIDENCE**

_**Saturday, June 5th… late afternoon, San** _**_Francisco_**_ **International Airport…**_

Katie Roman checked the electronic readerboard before heading over to the domestic arrivals hall. United Airlines 325 was on time and scheduled to reach the terminal by 6:30pm. She wanted to be at the forefront of the crowd awaiting incoming travelers. She'd told Doctor Mallard to look out for a tall, full-figured brunette in a red dress. For added insurance, she carried a poster board with 'MALLARD' boldly printed in broad-tip felt marker. If, on the off chance they missed each other in the scrum, he was to call her when he reached baggage claim.

Doctor Mallard wasn't among the first wave of passengers surging in, nor the second or third. But there he was in the fourth group, being carried along willy-nilly. They spotted each other immediately and he toiled over to where Katie stood behind the cordon barrier. Even though they'd exchanged headshot jpegs via email and she'd been astounded by the similarity to her father, nothing could have prepared her for the three-dimensional version now standing directly in front of her. For a moment her mind went completely blank, then she mentally pulled up her socks.

"Doctor Roman, I presume?" he quipped, faded blue eyes twinkling merrily in a face she knew all too well—although that _other_ face was normally somber and reserved whereas _this_ one was open and friendly, exuding warmth and humor.

"Yes, Doctor Mallard… and I feel thankful that I am here to welcome you," she retorted with a straight face before breaking into a grin. He smiled shyly, seeming pleased she had the wit to quote the lesser-known response by the famous and long-missing explorer.

They clasped hands although she felt like she ought to be hugging him. _Too soon. Maybe later. After he knows._

Seeing Donald Mallard in person solidified what she suspected she already knew. In her conversation with Mrs Hampton she had at first thought that perhaps the woman was mistaken and there were _two_ Mallard sons after all—elderly people can be forgetful. _But mirror images born in the same month and year? The answer can only be monozygotic twins. I know where one of them is… and here I am looking right at the other one. How did they come to be separated?_

############

_**Getting acquainted…**_

"How was your flight?" Katie asked as she guided him toward baggage claim, slowing her pace to accommodate his noticeable limp. "I hope it wasn't too tiring."

"Not at all, although one's joints do tend to seize up after five and a half hours in one position, even sleeping. There was very little turbulence and the meal was excellent—spinach salad with mozzarella cheese, black olives and grape tomatoes with a lemon vinaigrette dressing. I made note of it for Mrs Benefield… she's the woman who does for me—cooks and cleans and so forth."

Standing at the carousel, waiting for the luggage to be disgorged, Katie wondered _is he always this garrulous or just in the company of strange women?_

"The entrée was four-cheese ravioli… tasty but too heavy for tea, in my opinion, as was the chocolate raspberry cheesecake for afters… and the wine selection was acceptable if somewhat limited… ah… there's my valise."

Mallard made to lift the small suitcase off the conveyor belt before it slithered away but Katie beat him to it. "I'll take that… and your carry-on as well." He protested but let her take the items. They headed for the shuttle to the parking lot, the doctor chatting freely all the way to the shuttle. He kept right on as they clambered aboard.

"I watched a movie I've been very much looking forward to… 'The King's Speech'… have you seen it? Colin Firth did a splendid job as George VI, but then he always does no matter the subject."

Katie indicated to the shuttle driver to let them off at her white Subaru Forester.

Mallard kept rambling. "I remember my mother and the servants listening to the wireless, but of course I didn't understand what was going on as I was six years old at the time…"

After loading the suitcase and her passenger and checking to be sure he was securely belted in, Katie got behind the wheel and threaded her way out of the parking lot and into the traffic stream. Listening with half an ear, she ticked off comparisons between her father and this man who didn't yet know he was her uncle. Donald had a slight overbite and so did Illya. Donald enjoyed his food and so did Illya. Donald was voluble whereas Illya was a man of few words. Illya wouldn't be caught dead in a bow tie. Donald had probably never worn jeans and cowboy boots in his life… or a wedding ring. _Fussy Bachelor comes to mind… or Aging Queen?_

"My seatmate was pleasant enough but not inclined to converse, so I read during the remainder of the flight… 'The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo'… most entertaining. I prefer real books but a Kindle is so much more practical for travel… I'm talking too much, aren't I?" He threw up his hands with a sigh. "An idiosyncrasy, I'm afraid. I'm used to one-sided conversations with my patients."

Katie stole a glance at her passenger. "I read your profile on LinkedIn, sir. Aren't all your patients… um… dead?"

"Indeed they are, but that doesn't mean they're undeserving of courtesy. I read your profile as well, Doctor Roman. Fascinating field, genetics. I can see how genealogy ties in. Where are we going, by the way? I should have thought to make reservations but I was in such a tizzy, you see."

"I assumed you'd be staying with me… with us… at our home," Katie said.

"Oh no… I couldn't impose…"

"It's no imposition, I assure you. And it'll be more convenient for us… you and I, that is… my husband's out of town." Realizing how improper that must have sounded, she continued lamely, "We'll have privacy and room to spread out on the dining room table." _Good grief! Could I dig this hole any deeper?_ "What I mean is, room to spread out our research papers and work uninterrupted."

Being the gentleman that he was, the doctor nimbly sidestepped the embarrassed woman's _faux pas_. "You're quite right of course. I hadn't thought of that. If you're sure…?"

############

_**Early evening… Katie's home, Daly City…**_

The Roman's home was located on the west side of Daly City, midway between downtown San Francisco to the north and the international airport to the south—eight miles in either direction. Stepped into a gentle slope below San Bruno Mountain, the renovated 1950s-era split-level sat cheek by jowl with others of similar construction—all with postage-stamp front yards and barely enough room for a person to walk between. Katie and Ducky ascended from the two-car garage via a staircase debouching into a kitchen area.

It was much bigger on the inside than it appeared on the outside. Katie explained that except for the bathroom, laundry room and a tiny former bedroom now serving as an office, interior non-load-bearing walls had been removed from the main floor in order to remodel on the open plan style, creating a clear sight line from front to back. Sliding doors in the picture windows of the combined living/dining area opened to a balcony overlooking the city below and the Pacific Ocean beyond. In the other direction, past the kitchen and down a narrow hall, a glass door opened to a privacy-fence enclosed patio just large enough for a lap pool, a hot tub, a barbecue, a rattan bar and a wrought-iron table with matching chairs. A roll-up canvas awning could be deployed as shade from sun or shelter from rain, whichever was required.

"We do enjoy our creature comforts, Doctor Mallard," the lady of the house said with a laugh. "Nothing like this in Kyiv."

"It's Donald, remember? You lived in Kyiv?"

"A tale for later, Donald. Let me show you to your room. More steps to climb, I'm afraid."

"I can manage. The bedrooms in my home are also a flight up."

Upstairs was the master bedroom with en suite bath and balcony and two smaller bedrooms sharing a jack-and-jill bath. In the guest room at the end of the hall, Katie took a folding suitcase rack from the closet. "I'll leave you to unpack or whatever. Come down when you're ready. It's too bad we've missed the sunset. It's quite spectacular. After work, Dennis and I like to take our pre-dinner drinks out to the balcony to enjoy it. Which reminds me, would you prefer dinner earlier or later?"

"Later would be better… something on the lighter side, if you please. A salad, perhaps?"

"I hear you. How about coffee or tea? Or something stronger."

"Tea, yes… and something stronger would be lovely… scotch if you have any, no ice."

"I believe we've got some Laphroaig. Will that do?"

"Eminently!" Donald beamed. "I shall be down directly I've changed into something more suited to the climate."

############

_**That evening… Katie's balcony…**_

On this moonless night, the city below pulsated like a carelessly tossed tangle of Christmas lights, bisected by the streaming red and white corpuscles traveling Interstate 280. Donald and Katie savored their respective beverages—Glenlivet single malt and Absolut mandarin vodka. She'd prepared a salad of mixed greens and cold boiled shrimp with a balsamic vinaigrette dressing, served with homemade sourdough breadsticks and Italian lemon ice for dessert. Asserting that it hit the spot, her guest polished off his portion down to the last crustacean while proclaiming the Domaine Serge Laloue Sanserre as the perfect wine pairing for the meal. And then they'd repaired to the balcony.

"You mentioned seeing your father tomorrow…?" Donald began tentatively.

"I lied. Not to you—to the family. Call it a well-intentioned half-truth. Said I had to work this weekend, which in a way is true."

"While I'm very excited to compare notes with you, it's a bit late to get started, don't you think?"

"Agreed. Tomorrow'll be soon enough. I expect we'll be at it most of the day, if not _all_ day. Why? Are you sleepy?"

"Not in the slightest. You?"

"Me neither."

"Why don't we tell each other something of ourselves… informally. Your name, for instance. Katie is short for…?"

"Kathryn… originally, Ekaterina."

"A solid old-fashioned Russian name, that," the doctor remarked. "Were you born in the Soviet Union?"

"Yes… in Severomorsk but brought to New York as an infant and lived there and in Massachusetts until I married and moved to Kyiv. We relocated here several years ago." _Maybe I shouldn't have told him that just yet._

"Forgive my inquisitiveness, but what is your birth name? I somehow got the impression it was Romanov."

"No, it's Bauer. My husband is… was… Romanov. We had it legally changed to Roman when we moved here. It was his family I was researching, while we were still living in Kyiv. Dennis was an exchange student at MIT—that's how we met. Anyway, documentation was going smooth as silk and then I ran into a brick wall with Anton."

"The mysterious Anton, who disappeared in 1933."

"More like _disapparated_."

"As a fellow scientist, I wouldn't have taken you for a Harry Potter follower."

"I read the books to my children when they were small—Elijah was eleven and Evaluna was eight—and then I was hooked."

"Not my usual literary choice, either, but I admit to being a closet admirer of JK Rowling. Don't tell anyone. I am curious, however, why you chose that particular word. Does it not signify one who vanishes from one place and turns up in another?"

"It does and he did."

"I see. Where were we? Ah yes… the Romanovs… but not _the_ Romanovs, I take it?"

"Shirttail relations. Anyway, it turns out Anton is… or _was_… the brother of my husband's grandfather."

"Interesting."

"This is where it gets sticky. _My_ father was adopted as a child by Ukrainian gypsies. I know that sounds a bit _opéra comique_ but it's what we've always been told. I have reason to believe he _might_ be Anton's son, which makes me a Romanov as well, which would make Dennis and me second cousins."

"Which is not illegal, as far as I know."

"I'm hoping you might be able to confirm the connection."

"I'm confident that by integrating our research, we will have the answer tomorrow—one way or the other."

"My father either doesn't know his birth name or doesn't want to know… or he does know and has chosen not to acknowledge it. I'm betting he just doesn't know. Too long a story to go into right now."

"Fascinating! I'm looking forward to hearing how that came about."

"Might I ask you one question before we call it a night?"

"You may."

"Why are you _so_ interested in Anton? What's he to you? I'm pretty sure I already know, but I'd like to hear it from the horse's mouth."

"That, my dear, is definitely going to have to wait until tomorrow. I am finding myself utterly fatigued."

############

_**The next morning… Katie's kitchen…**_

Even at the weekend, Donald rarely slept much past his usual wakeup time, so he was annoyed with himself to find it was already pushing ten when his kidneys floated him out of bed. Ablutions consummated in record time, he dressed and went downstairs to find Katie presiding at the stove, crêpe pan in hand. His nose twitched at the buttery, orangey scent wafting from a small saucepan on a back burner.

"Oh my goodness! Is that what I think it is?"

"_Spécialité de la maison—_blini à la Kathryn with _beurre suzette_ Grand Marnier, hold the _flambé_," she smiled, transferring the contents of the pan to a warming plate already layered with the delicate lace-edged confection. "Coffee's done, table's set and I'll be finished in just a minute, so go sit."

Katie served her creations flat and topped with sauce in the traditional French manner, rather than folded around a savory filling in the Russian style. At first bite Donald's taste buds thought they'd died and gone to heaven, while his waistline lamented the assault to come on its girth.

"Mrs Benefield would have you up on charges for this," he said, helping himself to the next pancake.

"Charges?"

"Contributing to the delinquency of a senior citizen." Two spots of pink appeared on his cheeks, realizing how risqué that sounded. "That is… she keeps me on a strict dietary regime."

"I won't tell if you don't."

'_And so between the two of them they licked the platter clean,'_ Donald thought, wishing he could.

############

_**Opening salvos…**_

After declining Donald's offer of assistance and attending to the cleaning up, Katie brought her laptop and notebooks to the table where he'd arranged his. Then, with mugs of stout Cuban espresso at their elbows, they proceeded to put their heads together.

"Alrighty then," she grinned. "I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours." This time the double entendre _was_ deliberate.

"Ladies first," Donald said, clasping his hands on the tabletop and peering expectantly over his bifocals at his hostess. "Tell me everything you know about _your_ Anton. Then I'll tell you about mine."

Katie led him through the encounter with _Bobchi_ Agata, including the tale of the beggar at the door in 1946. "The story about the gypsies tallies in with what our father's told us… whether or not he's the missing child we've yet to prove. I questioned as many of the local Rom as would agree to talk, but none of them admitted to knowing any Kuryakins." Then Katie told how her Internet searches led to the exchange with Mrs Hampton. "Now it's your turn."

"Fair enough… but I fear I must go back rather a long way."

"We have all day… and tomorrow if necessary."

"My tinned history is that I was born and raised near Edinburgh and spent my childhood there on our family estate. My parents were ill-suited to each other and their marriage was not a harmonious one. Early on, Father began living permanently in London in our townhouse. Mother would go there for the social season and as often as she could manage at other times. Essentially, however, they were living separate lives, if you get my meaning."

Katie nodded that she did.

"As a small boy, I knew no different. I thought everyone's parents lived that way and that everyone had a nanny or a governess to mind them. Then I was sent off to boarding school. They divorced when I was eighteen—old enough to understand how unhappy Mother had been for over twenty years. I graduated university, became a doctor of medicine, joined the army, traveled the world and eventually emigrated to the States. As you would have gleaned from my LinkedIn profile, I am currently employed as chief medical examiner for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. But all that is beside the point…"

Again Katie nodded that she had got all of that. Her upbringing had been fairly normal, except—of course—for the family having to go undercover. Did that qualify as dysfunctionality? She wondered how she was going to explain that bit.

The doctor continued. "Before I go any further, I must ask that you keep to yourself what I am about to tell you… for the time being. Only one other person knows and that is my solicitor, as he is the one who settled my mother's estate."

"You have my word. Mrs Hampton mentioned that your mother had recently passed away. I'm so sorry. How old was she?"

"Ninety-nine, two months short of the century mark. When it became evident she couldn't continue on her own, I convinced her to leave England and come to live with me. I was able to purchase a rather grand home in Reston—far too large for just the two of us—but I felt the transition would be less traumatic for her if we maintained a semblance of the lifestyle to which she was accustomed, surrounded by familiar objects."

"That was extraordinarily thoughtful of you, Donald."

"She was a remarkable women, if deficient in maternal instinct and marital fidelity. I adored her anyway. Now back to my story… and I warn you it isn't a very nice one. You see, in 1932 my mother took a lover…


	22. Chapter 22

_Chapter 22:_** THE POINT ONE PERCENT SOLUTION**

_**Sunday, June 6th… mid-morning at the hacienda…**_

By Maria's own command while she was still wound up, Aisling had been on house restriction and forbidden from going anywhere near the stables for the remainder of their stay. But after enduring forty-eight hours of sulking and attitude, the harassed mother was forced to rescind her order… in part. Aisling _could_ ride… but the original rules still applied—only in the paddock and only in the presence of a responsible adult. _And…_ she first had to finish out her punishment. Aisling whined but yielded to the terms.

In the meantime, canny Carl—knowing a broken arm wouldn't stop a teenage girl from wanting to ride—shrewdly sent Alonzo with the estate pickup truck and the two-horse trailer to borrow an additional pony from a neighbor. That way all three youngsters would be satisfied, once they had served their time on restriction and were allowed outside again.

Having arrived at a peace accord of sorts, the sisters-in-law were working at the craft table along with Eva and Tessa when Elise swooped in with a bee in her bonnet. At breakfast she'd proposed a gals' day out—her treat—at a spa she'd found on the Internet. Continuing her campaign with her captive audience, she extolled the virtues of Golden Haven Hot Springs Spa & Resort, only twenty minutes away in Calistoga: massages and facials, body-waxing, mani-pedis and mud baths, and stress-relieving soaks in herbal and mineral hot tubs supplied by geothermal springs.

The mothers demurred but Elise persevered. Could they not all benefit from a restorative break from pre-wedding madness? Surely the men could be prevailed upon to mind the children _for just one day_? Tessa was included in the invitation—surely the Mexican maids could manage meals _for just one day_? The spa was touting a 'Girlfriends' Special'—the whole enchilada in one package. Eventually the women surrendered to Elise's entreaties. But what about Mom? Eva fretted. Elise shrugged, saying she'd counted Katie in the reservations, but it would be Katie's loss unless she showed up that evening.

Behind the stables, where a level stretch of fallow pasture gently rose to a berm holding back an irrigation reservoir, a shooting range had been set up—for entertainment, was what the women were told and didn't question as this activity fell into the realm of 'it's a man thing. 'Having been taken into Illya's confidence as to the real reason, Carl turned out the contents of his gun safe—more armaments than the average householder normally kept on his premises. But this wasn't the average household, was it? Targets ranged from hay bales pinned with crudely drawn concentric circles on flattened cardboard boxes to odd bits of metal junk Alonzo dredged out of equipment storage.

In the house, Tessa nudged up the volume on the stereo system providing background music, which softened but didn't eliminate the staccato reports of gunfire.

############

_**Earlier… out on the firing range…**_

In his previous life, agent-in-training Kuryakin had done so well in UNCLE survival school that he had been asked to serve as guest instructor for the demolitions course. Today's exercise, however, was not geared toward blowing up things with bombs but blowing away people with guns. Aside from family members (Chris, Dennis and Eli), Illya was obliged to provide a reason for this unusual undertaking to those either partially informed (Carl, Bob Gárcia and Aidan) or wholly uninformed (Alonzo Jones, Diego Hernández, Javier Aguado, Edmundo López, Pedro Bustillo, Jorje Fuentes and Manuel Espinosa). The explanation given to them and the women wasn't _too far_ from the truth…

In recent years a certain corporate giant—seeking to expand its mass-produced cheap wines under the Fallo label—had been steadily buying out independent vineyards, with the stated aim of eventually controlling the entire Napa wine-making region. Though underhanded dealings on their part could not be proven, it was generally known that refusals to sell out had been met with thinly-veiled threats of the various ways in which shoe-string operations could be forced out of business—economic pressures, immigration investigations, water rights litigation, accidents. Too many smaller growers had already caved in under the overwhelming financial superiority of Big Business… and in fear of reprisals.

With Bauer men at the sidelines, Carl García addressed his workers: four times already Fallo representatives had made overtures with escalating offers to buy Rama de Olivo. On behalf of Señor Bauer, Señor García repeatedly informed them the estate was not for sale at any price. The most recent visitor, a heavyweight suit obviously well-versed in more persuasive tactics, turned ugly—inferring his overlords had 'other means' of encouraging cooperation. Señors García and Bauer chose to interpret this as physical, perhaps violent, interference rather than shady legal avenues.

Former infantry Staff Sergeant Carlos Gárcia, 1st Battalion, 8th Marine Regiment, survivor of the 1983 suicide barracks bombing in Beirut, rallied his troops to defend their livelihoods. Were they going to take this lying down? _¡Diablos, no! _Were they prepared to support Señor Bauer by any means necessary? _¡Apuestas tu vida!_

############

_**The Man Cave…**_

The estate's equipment maintenance shed was actually a large outbuilding with steel roller shutter doors accessing three wide work bays. The attached office had a standard exterior door with an interior door and plate glass window overlooking the bays. In addition to a restroom with a shower, it contained all the usual elements of a garage office plus a hot plate, a coffeemaker and an older but still serviceable refrigerator.

Earlier, Illya had suggested that—as the house was overrun with women preoccupied with wedding preparations—the men needed a gathering place of their own, where they could play poker, swap lies, swill beer, smoke cigars and not worry about filtering their language. Carl proposed the maintenance shed as their 'clubhouse'. Readily approving of this idea as it would keep the men from underfoot when not otherwise needed, the ladies promptly dubbed it 'The Man Cave,' further agreeing it would henceforth be off-limits to females and children.

Now, the Man Cave was quickly organized into a defense headquarters, jointly overseen by Illya and Carl. Retired folding chairs and and several rickety card tables were brought from storage. Two sturdy utility tables were unfolded and set up for gun cleaning. A survey map of the estate, a USGS topographical map of the area and a CDOT road map of the county were spread out on the card tables. Carl, Illya and the older workers most familiar with the estate pored over them, ascertaining the most and least likely entry points by would-be intruders.

There was only one blacktopped drive into the estate compound, which could easily be blocked off to vehicular traffic by closing and locking the tall metal gates at its entrance off the county road. However, there were several unpaved access roads connecting the estate with its neighbors. These roads could be closed by swing gates defining property lines but generally were left ajar as usage was by common consent. And, of course, anyone could park offsite and hotfoot it through the woods to a convenient sniping position.

Right from the get-go, co-captains Illya and Carl found themselves with a manpower deficit. The estate's fourteen hundred acres equated to a little over two square miles, which mean a _lot_ of perimeter to patrol. On top of that, this was the absolute busiest season for canopy management and maintenance in the vineyard—trellising of tendrils, pruning, irrigating, fertilizing, weeding, spraying… none of which could wait. They simply didn't have the personnel to hold weapons drills, stand guard _and_ tend to the vines. So, Carl further entreated his nine Mexican workers and Alonzo to go forth and round up as many warm bodies as they could from among friends and family.

############

_**Meanwhile, that same day… back in Daly City…**_

Donald Horatio Mallard (unofficially but not yet provably née Romanov) and Kathryn Kuryakin slash Bauer Romanova (also unofficially and perhaps not even provably née Romanov) locked eyeballs over the table. Were they or weren't they?

"Well," she said softly. "Looks like we've arrived at ninety-nine and nine tenths of a percent surety. What do _you_ think?"

Donald's tone was equally subdued. "It's that one tenth of a percent that troubles me. A DNA test would decide the issue, but that would take several weeks. No rush, I suppose."

Katie nibbled on her lower lip. "Still… don't you want to _know?_ I sure do. Sorry if I'm coming over all obsessional… but at this point I don't mind admitting I'm fixated on finding out. What's the matter?"

Donald still seemed troubled. "Now that we're on the verge of… whatever this could be called, I find myself afraid that it will all come to naught. That we will have made fools of ourselves in attempting to forge a connection where none exists."

"Okay." Katie blew out her cheeks and stood up. "Excuse me… I'll be right back." With that she turned and went down the hall, disappearing into the office. Moments later she reappeared with two large leather-bound photo albums that she carried around to his side of the table. "Make me some room, would you?"

Donald dutifully shoved aside his laptop and papers so she could lay before him the first of the albums.

"I believe you'll find your one-tenth of a percent in here. Wait!" Katie put a hand lightly over Donald's, forestalling his lifting the cover, then moved a chair around to sit beside him. "Let me first say, the family photos in here go back only as far as 1984, when my father was fifty-one. There's a reason for that, but it will be up to him to explain. You can look now."

Donald opened the album to be confronted with a color portrait of… _himself_. On a rational level he comprehended it _wasn't_, but it _was_ the same face he'd seen in the mirror every morning, making ready for work as Chief Coroner for the City of London… twenty-six years ago. He turned to the next page… a family group. The photos were all neatly tagged with names, dates and locations. It occurred to him he had _two_ names for the face—'Kuryakin' and 'Bauer.' Which one applied… and why? _Best not to pry… let her clarify in her own good time._

"Can you identify the subjects for me as we go along… and proximate ages?" He heard the hoarseness in his voice.

At the same time it dawned on Katie that she had not yet figured out how to integrate the 'Romanov' element with her father's Eastern European, supposedly adopted Romani surname 'Kuryakin' and her family's current Central European surname 'Bauer.' Knowing Donald had to be thinking and wondering about it but hoping he wouldn't ask—not yet—she used her forefinger to point them out. "My father Elijah Bauer, my stepmother Lisa, me—I was about eighteen there, my half-sister Maria and half-brother Christian." Page by page, Donald slowly leafed to the end of the album, where he was at long last convinced that Elijah Bauer was no mere look-alike but his very real, eerily identical twin.

Katie replaced the first album with the second, again with a preamble. "This is the latest of the family legacy albums. You'll get a better idea of what my father looks like now." She sat back and awaited Donald's reaction to what she knew was coming.

Again, he was arrested by the first photograph… _himself_, as he looked now at seventy-seven, with a younger man, also _himself_, exactly as he had appeared in his early twenties. He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck standing to attention.

"Has this image been photoshopped?" he demanded, incredulous at the resemblance between the subjects.

Katie laughed. "I thought that's what you'd think. But no… that's Dad and my son Elijah, taken at Dad's birthday party last year. Astonishing, isn't it?"

"To say the least…"

"Dennis and I've been scratching our heads for the past twenty-three years. Repeated DNA tests have come back consistently much higher than the average twenty-five percent standard between grandparent and grandchild. We only found out about our shared ancestry with Anton right before we moved here and started new jobs. Since then we've been so busy there hasn't been an opportunity to go back into it. I'm thinking this double-dip of Romanov genes might account for Elijah's uncanny resemblance to his granddad."

"Sounds logical. Shall we now proceed to the next step?"

"If you mean engineering a meeting between you and Dad… yes. But first we need to formulate our approach. Can't just ride up there with 'Guess who's coming to dinner?' "

"He knows nothing of… _this?_" Donald swept an arm toward the piles of paperwork.

"Not a clue."

"You're correct in that it wouldn't be a good idea to present me out of the blue. Were I him, I would want the initial meeting to be private."

"Then let's plan how we're going to accomplish this…"


	23. Chapter 23

_Chapter 23: _**WHEN CONSPIRATORS CONSPIRE**

_**Monday, June 7th… Golden Haven Hot Springs Spa & Resort, Calistoga…**_

The Rama de Olivo Vineyards contingent nibbled at salads and fruits with lo-cal dressings and whole-wheat breadsticks in the private dining room reserved for spa attendees between sessions. In their white terry robes and turbans they drew no attention as every other woman in the room was attired likewise.

"Did you call Mom to let her know about this?" Eva asked of her grandmother. "I tried but it went to voicemail."

"Of course I did," Elise replied, "With the same result. She does that when she's in the lab."

"I don't know why she can't be bothered to answer the phone, for frick's sake!" Eva poked out her bottom lip, annoyed.

"Language, young lady!" Elise admonished. "You're not among your college friends now, so behave!"

"You should know your mother by now," Maria opined, reaching for her mango-kiwi smoothie. "If she's teetering on the brink of a breakthrough, the rest of us can go screw ourselves sideways."

"Don't speak of your sister that way!" Elise rebuked. "And you watch your mouth as well. Is there any more tea in that carafe?"

"If anyone has any additions to the guest list, I need to see it when we get back," Tessa said, deflecting the conversation away from muddy waters.

"Now that you mention it," Eva mused, "there's a couple of kids from LA I should've thought to invite…"

"You have school friends in Los Angeles, dear?" Elise asked.

"More Bob's than mine. We stayed with them over spring break. Went surfing with their club during the day and at night they threw terrific bonfire parties on the beach."

"Oh, Chris and I _love_ surfing!" Sarah piped up. "We drove to Bell's Beach last month for the Rip Curl Pro and had a brilliant time."

"Wow!" Eva exclaimed, "Isn't that, like, one of Australia's biggest competitions? Did you try your luck?"

"Good heavens, no. Spectators only. Surf's too rough for children. On weekends we go to Thirteenth Beach, on the Bellarine Peninsula? Swells are light to moderate there. It's a bit of a drive but the kids love it."

"It's a little late to be sending out invitations, isn't it?" Elise interjected, not in the least interested in water sports. "Won't your friends find that rude?"

"Nah… no problem, Gram. They're impulse-driven… not like you old folks. I'll just text 'em this evening."

Elise rolled her eyes and sniffed disdainfully. "Young people these days!"

Tessa steered them back to the matter of the guest list. "Hope you don't mind, but as we've had a number of regrets, I've taken the liberty of adding some family friends of ours—_Angelenos_ up here for the summer with houseguests… another couple and their mutual granddaughter."

Elise patted her hand. "As mother of the groom, you have as much right as the rest of us to invite whomever you choose, my dear."

"I believe you'll find them a lively addition to the party," Tessa said.

############

_**Eight miles away at Wine Country Inn & Cottages, Deer Park…**_

"You're sure you'll be okay here on your own for a while?" Katie asked, filling the half-size refrigerator with microwaveable meals she'd prepared at home. They'd stopped at the Lighthouse Café in Sausalito for breakfast and a Safeway in Napa to stock up on drinks and snacks so that Donald wouldn't have to show his face in the inn's dining room.

Donald glanced around the beautifully appointed interior of the rustic cottage and smiled. "Very sure. What a marvelous retreat. If I weren't tied to my work in Washington, I could easily live in a place like this."

Katie'd lucked out when she'd made the reservation. The inn had been fully booked but there'd been a last-minute cancellation. An even greater omen of good fortune was that she'd got what she wanted—the most secluded cottage at the farthest end of the drive, where comings and goings would be less noticeable… a perfect venue for a clandestine meeting.

"I can't promise I'll be back this evening. First I'll have to deal with family, then finagle a way to get Dad off alone so I can… you know… _explain_ things? Then it might take a day or two to come up with a reason for just the two of us to go off on a jaunt."

Donald took her by the hands and squeezed gently. "Bear in mind, my girl, the possibility _he_ might not want to meet _me_. If that should be the case… if he's as nervous as I am, I promise I will understand and go away quietly. No one else need ever know."

Katie squeezed back, bestowing a decorous peck on his cheek and hoping he didn't find that too presumptuous. "I don't see that happening. Well, I'm off. If you need me, I'm only fifteen minutes away."

############

_**Five miles away at Rama de Olivo, poolside…**_

The evening before, both Angela and Rosalia phoned with bad news—their shared sitter had been called away on a family emergency and they didn't know when, or even if, they'd be able to find a replacement on such short notice. One of them might have to stay home the next day. Tessa immediately proposed they bring to work with them their entire complement of offspring, promising she'd find _someone_ to ride herd while they were in the pool… even if she had to play lifeguard herself. Thus, the pool was churning with white and brown faces shrieking at the eardrum-shattering decibels only happy youngsters could achieve when having fun.

Quite sensibly, the ponies were off limits while shooting was underway. Anyway, Aidan and Eli were temporarily out of service. Bored and lonesome in her now self-imposed exile, Aisling spied through her bedroom window a cute Mexican boy about her own age, splayed in a chaise lounge with a cast on his leg. _Hello, what's this?_ Abandoning her pity party, the girl shot downstairs and out to the pool deck to introduce herself.

His name was Gael Hernández, Rosalia's oldest son. He was fourteen and had been bucked off a horse. Aisling was embarrassed to admit she'd only fallen off a startled pony. She'd have much preferred to claim she, too, had parted company with a full-size horse while negotiating a hurdle. However, that story wouldn't hold water as the old plodders in the stables probably couldn't clear a cavaletti pole if hurled by trebuchet. Plus, the big horses were off limits to the younger children unless being ridden in company with an adult. He probably already knew that.

"What's all that shooting about?" Gael asked. "You guys got grape poachers?"

"Dido says… that's what we call our granddad sometimes. What do you call yours?"

"Sometimes _Abuelo _but mostly Grandpa. He's here today, by the way, which is real odd 'cause he retired four years ago. You were saying?"

"Dido—Grandad—says they're just playing games… target shooting. But I don't believe him." They were sitting far enough away they couldn't be overheard by Angela, who was spelling Rosalia. "There's something going on they're not telling us about."

"I think you're right, Ash," Gael agreed, 'Ash' being as close as he could get to 'Aisling.' "But what _do_ you think they're up to?"

Aisling frowned, fiddling with a twist of blonde hair. "They're worried about something. And they're talking real quiet in the house and stop when any of us kids come near."

"Yeah, that's exactly what happened at my house last night. Dad and Grandpa went outside to smoke and talk, then this morning Grandpa got dressed and came along with us. They were both looking real serious… and they brought shotguns."

"I don't think Mom and them've noticed," Aisling said. "They're too wrapped up with my cousin Eva's wedding. My Aunt Katie would know… nothing gets by her, but she's not here yet. And that's another thing… Aunt Katie—she's Eva's mom, she was supposed to be here Friday but she called Uncle Dennis and said she had to work over the weekend… which is a bunch of bullshit."

"How do you know she didn't?"

"'Cause I checked online. Duh! She's a geneticist at UCSF? Her lab's already closed down for midterm break."

"Maybe she's seeing someone?" Gael cocked an eyebrow in a conspiratorial leer.

"_Aunt Katie?_" Aisling was horrified. "No way! No… it's something else… something bad." She shivered. "You gonna be back tomorrow?"

"Probably not. Today was just a one-off 'cause Mom and Tía Angela both had to work and couldn't find sitters."

"Rosalia and Angela are sisters? I didn't know that."

"Sisters-in-law so she's still my auntie."

Aisling had an idea. "Hey… what if I ask Miz Tessa and Mom if you can come every day… to keep me company? Being stuck with these babies all day is, like, a total drag and I'm way too old for a sitter. So are you."

"That'd be great. Then we might could poke around and find out what's going on!"

############

_**Meanwhile… arriving at the hacienda…**_

Katie pulled the Forester into a vacant spot next to the party bus, wondering why the parking area looked like Cuzzin Al's Used Pickup Trucks sales lot. When no one came out to greet her, she belatedly realized she should have called ahead to let them know she was coming, so that someone could have been on hand to help carry luggage. There was no way she could juggle two suitcases and the garment bag containing her mother-of-the-bride dress and Eva's gown, plus four totes and a purse packed to capacity. Wrangling the larger of the suitcases from the cargo area, she figured she would have to make several trips to bring in the rest.

The house was oddly hushed when she entered the foyer, which wasn't unusual as the thick adobe walls of the original structure effectively muted sound. Listening closely, Katie identified children's voices from the pool area, someone warbling in Spanish in the kitchen… and, in the far distance, gunfire. _Gunfire?_ Leaving the suitcase at the foot of the stairs, she followed her nose to the kitchen, where Rosalia was singing and stirring an enormous kettle of chili con carne.

The maid jumped a foot, breaking off in mid-stanza with a squawk when Katie hailed her from the doorway.

"_Santa Maria!_ Señora Caterina… you give me such fright!" The little woman blessed herself.

"_Lo siento, Rosalia. Ven y dame un abrazo…" _The two embraced… Rosalia rather timidly as this was, after all, the patron's _hija número uno_.

"_¿Dónde están todos las mujeres?"_ Katie inquired.

Proud of her hard-won second language and with only a hazy concept of what white ladies did at a day spa, Rosalia struggled to find the right words, describing in broken English where all the women had gone and why, and that they were supposed to be back in time for supper… a _very late _supper—well after all the children were abed. Angela and Rosalia and their people would have gone home by then. Supper tonight would be steaks grilled outside by _Segundo_ Carlos and the _Patrón_. They, Rosalia and Angela, had already prepared the side dishes, which would be served by _Señora_ Elisa and the other ladies on the patio.

Rosalia went on to explain the presence of extra children in the pool… that _Señora_ Elisa had told them the children were welcome to come along. _¿Y los hombres?_ _El Patrón_ and _Segundo_ Carlos had given them all guns and were teaching them how to shoot.

"Why? What for?" Katie made the mistake of asking… and Rosalia was off and running, brandishing her soupspoon like a baton. Flecks of red sauce dotted the cabinets and bits of chili splotched onto the counter.

_¿Por qué?! _ Her husband Diego said it was because of snakes in the vineyards, which was ridiculous because it was just as easy to kill a snake with a hoe… as they had always done...

Katie continued standing there, dumbfounded, as the cook's agitated rant spilled out, unstoppable. Diego and his aged father Tito and Edmundo López and his equally antiquated father-in-law Guillermo were out patrolling the far reaches of the estate… on horseback, with _escopetas_… how you say? Shotguns! The others—Javier, Pedro, Jorje and Manuel—had arrived this morning with an assortment of brothers, cousins, older teenagers and—yes—yet more foolish _ancianos_ who should be home tending their goats and chickens. Everyone who possessed a firearm had brought it with.

"Snakes my ass!" Rosalia concluded with a verbal flourish from her limited lexicon of gringo colloquialisms. "_¡Jesús, María y José! _Snakes do not require an army of _idiotas! _You will find out what they are up to, señora? Before they shoot themselves and get taken to _el hospital_ or _la cárcel?_"

############

_**Forty minutes later, at the back staircase…**_

Katie managed to calm down Rosalia with repeated assurances that she would most certainly get to the bottom of this absurd turn of events… but first, she needed to bump her suitcase upstairs, find suitable clothing and go in search of her father and husband. After two trips back to the Forester for the rest of her gear and changed into much more comfortable jeans, teeshirt and sneakers, she slipped downstairs via the back staircase and encountered Eli loping in through the rear entrance.

"Mom! You made it. Where the heck've you been?" He enveloped his mother in a hug of genuine fondness.

"I could ask the same of you," Katie said, stepping back and with a forefinger tracing the line of Steri-Strips on her son's forehead. "What's this?"

"It's nothing, Mom. Don't fuss."

"Wasn't going to." Katie bit back the rush of questions fighting for dominance. _How did you hurt yourself?_ _Where've you been for the past six weeks? Where's your father? Why haven't you at least called or texted to let me know you were all right? Where's your grandfather? What the hell's going on around here? Are we in danger of some kind?_ And finally… _How's this going to impact my own mission? How will I find private time to talk to Tato? How long can I keep Donald on ice?_

Mentally taking a deep breath, Katie drew on her training in time management and prioritization. _What's most important here? That's easy… children always comes first._

"Have you got a few moments to spare for your poor old mother?"

"Uh… sure, Mom." His face said otherwise.

"Unless you're too busy…" _My dear sweet child… nonchalance doesn't suit you…_

"Never too busy for you, Mom. What's on your mind?"

"Oh, this and that. After all, we haven't seen you in months." _Hate to do it but sometimes you just have to play the guilt card…_ "Let's get some iced tea and go sit in the conservatory…


	24. Chapter 24

_Chapter 24:_** THE CONSERVATORY OF CONFIDENCES**

_**Still Monday…**_

The conservatory was Katie's favorite place in the hacienda.

Over time, the hacienda metamorphosed from a single blockhouse with a patio at the rear to a hollow rectangle encompassing a courtyard, overlooked by a gallery onto which all bedroom suites opened. The roof of the portico which ran all the way around the house provided a second-floor terrace also accessible from the bedrooms. One of the first remodels the Bauers undertook was conversion of the courtyard to an all-weather conservatory. Under the polycarbonate dome, remotely operated louvers controlled input of fresh air when the season permitted. Retractable solar shades screened out the sun on the hotter days of summer.

This interior garden was Alonzo Jones' domain. Dwarf citrus, avocado and olive trees—many of them over a century old—and fan palms had been transplanted from cracked, faded terra cotta pots into a series of long planters. Spaced at intervals with walking room in between, these separated the central space from the peristyle created by the gallery, giving an illusion of privacy to those taking their ease on ornately carved wooden benches. Bougainvillea twined around the riverstone columns supporting the gallery and through its wrought-iron balcony railings. Hidden soaker hoses and automatic misters kept everything fresh and green.

The planters were mulched with eco-friendly coir, which also served to disguise grower pots holding orchids and other exotic tropicals grown in the hobby greenhouse attached to the cabin Alonzo shared with his gentle, sweet-faced Down's Syndrome nephew, Willy John. Both men possessed a singular ability in that every plant under their care flourished. They regularly swapped out pots with spent blossoms for those just coming into bloom, so that the conservatory was never without scent and vibrant color. Willy John was further in charge of the koi flashing beneath lily pads in the tiled pool which, along with its three-tiered white marble fountain, formed the centerpiece of the greenspace.

Mother and son seated themselves on one of the benches. Katie drew him in with a request for highlights of Eli's recent foray to the Nordic countries, culminating in Iceland.

Eli had been staying at a youth hostel in Reykjavík when the volcano with the tongue-twister name erupted. "It was awesome, Mom. Pretty far off though—about a hundred and fifty miles. A bunch of us rode out there together on a tour bus. The week after that we rented a VW camper van and went all the way around the island. It was really cold even in April—never got above forty-two and dropped below freezing every night. We did three days at the Blue Lagoon and that was fantastic."

"How'd you get off the island? Weren't all flights cancelled because of the ash cloud?"

"They were… for a week. I hopped the ferry to Denmark, then took the train from Hirtshals to Copenhagen. Flight restrictions were lifted just long enough to make it over to London and on to New York. I _did_ call then, Mom… to let you know I was on the way, remember?"

"That was six weeks ago, Elijah," Katie commented mildly. _In other words, where have you been in the meantime and why didn't you get on another jet to San Francisco?_

There was a significant pause as he turned his head just enough to avoid meeting his mother's eyes. "I… uh… I decided to drive instead of fly… you know, do some exploring. Bought a camper van. Still had plenty of time to get here," Eli said in a futile attempt to appear guileless.

_Equivocation doesn't suit you either, son of mine._ "Ohhhh kaaaay… as you're obviously not ready to talk about _that_, let's move on to the next subject."

"What next subject?"

"The subject of why this place is shaping up to the Battle of the Alamo… except with all the Mexicans on the inside."

Mothers not only have eyes in the backs of their heads, they possess some kind of unique sensory organ that alerts them to mischief, misbehavior and malfeasance. And some mothers—like Katie—could elicit a confession by transfixing their prey with a cobra-like stare while not saying a word. Eli was patently capable of lying when he deemed it necessary… having learned from a master—his grandfather. In this instance, however, lying would serve no purpose as she'd somehow already learned about the armed militia.

Eli broke first. He always did. "We've been found out," he said.

"What do you mean _'found out'? _ By whom?" Katie snapped, more sharply than intended.

"By the people Grandpa's been hiding from since forever. And it's probably my fault."

Of course, explaining how he was—or _might_ be—responsible for the security leak entailed disclosing the confessions to his father and grandfather… and the real reason for all that gunfire.

Katie was both appalled and enthralled. This story was getting more convoluted by the minute.

"So these people you think are following you aren't just figments of your imagination?"

"Not _think_, Mom… _know._ They're for real, all right. Then there's those people who recognized me, who used to work with Grandpa back when he was a spy."

"He was never a spy as such, Elijah," Katie corrected. "And what people? What do you mean by _recognized?_ You weren't even born back then. Those people, whoever they are—or were—must be in their seventies by now. What makes you think…?"

"Whatever… the other thing is, I might have told Misha about this place—that I was coming here for Eva's wedding. Grandpa reckons Misha inadvertently or on purpose exposed us to his father, who's some big shot secret government security dude back in Russia… which, anyway you look at it, _is_ my fault. He says they _will_ find us… one way or another. That's why we're forting up now. Only the men in the family and Carl know the real reason. All the others were told a different story. None of the other women know… yet. Just you."

"You _might_ have told? Good grief!" Katie put her hand over her face. A twenty-six year existential gap would mean nothing to the bulldog tenacity of Russian intelligence—and their pursuit would be relentless. She and her brother and sister had the danger of loose talk drilled into their heads as children.

"I'm so sorry, Mom. I know all of you are disappointed in me," Eli said mournfully. "If anything happens to spoil Eva's wedding, she'll never speak to me again… or kill me."

"Well… I'm certainly not pleased." What Katie was, was scared… but her heart went out to her abject son and she softened her voice. "It would've been helpful if you'd told me about that 'feeling' earlier so I could've given your granddad a heads up. _'Praemonitus praemunitus.'_ "

"I know, Mom… 'forewarned is forearmed.' But it sounded so… I don't know… paranoid, I guess."

"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you," Katie quipped, arching an eyebrow. A tiny bit of humor never went amiss, no matter how dire the situation.

Eli grimaced._ Real funny, Mom… and I haven't even got around to telling about the girls… and the recital… and Ronnie's people._

Rosalia came out from the kitchen to announce that adult lunch service was about to get underway. The children had been fed earlier. As they wouldn't be allowed in the pool for the next hour or so, Angela ushered them all upstairs for naps, except for Aisling and Gael, who repaired to the family room to entertain themselves with video games.

############

_**And in the Man Cave…**_

Illya had a headache. Danger was coming… of that he was sure. But why, aside from a personal thirst for revenge? Surely whatever knowledge he possessed, over forty years out of date, was of no benefit to any governmental agency. Except, he reminded himself, it wasn't so much _what_ he knew as _whom_. When and from what direction would trouble arrive? Would his adversary send snipers with spotters, or would they try to take him alive? Would their efforts be concentrated on his person, or was there a possibility of one or more family members being captured and held hostage? Was he overthinking this whole situation and blowing it out of all reasonable proportion?

Illya and his adjutants—Dennis, Chris, Carl and Bob—discussed distribution of personnel between vineyard duties and guard postings. Most of the older Mexican immigrants had a passing familiarity with rifles and shotguns as, back in the Old Country, they had often supplemented their families' larders with game. Younger first-, second- and third-gens, most having been raised in urban environments, had never shot a rabbit in their lives. Only those few who'd served in the military had ever handled a handgun. Therefore, in Carl's words, them what knew were put to instructing them what didn't. Each knowledgeable vineyard worker was paired with someone who had never worked a field.

In his time, Illya'd been responsible for orchestrating limited paramilitary operations, but never on this scale. _They make it look so easy on television and in motion pictures… the king commands his loyal subjects to defend the castle… and instantly a hundred archers appear at the arrow slits—trained, kitted out and ready to rumble. Rear echelon support is never explained._

To whom did one turn when one's security problem involved foreign, presumably Russian, invaders? Or, for that matter, homegrown agencies? How did they figure into this? This wasn't Waco or Ruby Ridge or some other nut-case survivalist compound or splinter religious commune. Illya ruefully considered Modern Home Defense Problems…

_Guards_—How many and where best placed? Who could ride a horse and where could extra mounts be borrowed if needed? Use of the four-wheelers had been ruled out due to the noise factor. How many men were willing and able to work night shift versus those who had to go home to their families at a reasonable hour? Would it be necessary to post guards in or around the hacienda itself?

_Payroll_—Although the cost of all these extra bodies wasn't an issue, _someone_ had to maintain a roster and see to it everyone was paid… the temps in cash, as many of the oldsters adhered to the under-the-mattress banking standard rather than brick-and-mortar. The accounting firm that handled the estate's finances would have running fits and blind staggers.

_Insurance_—All the regular employees enjoyed health and accident coverage, but what about everyone else? Where did the estate stand, liability-wise? The agency that provided all their insurance needs—personal, auto, home and commercial—would collectively stroke out.

_Legality_—Where did federal, state and local law enforcement stand on the issue of private security? How did one go about registering a private militia and was that even possible? Who would be held accountable if someone were to be killed? Especially if that someone was a foreign government's operative? Or worse, a domestic agency's?

_Accommodations_—The equipment shed was already set up to provide emergency shelter for migrant workers in the event of severe weather conditions, so that eliminated one concern—where off-duty night shifters could rest. But that entailed getting cots and bedding from the storage room, and setting up the portable shower.

_Sanitation_—As Carl had delicately pointed out, they would be needing a lot more portable toilets.

_Food_—Unlike most other vineyards, whose workers packed lunch pails from home, Rama de Olivo provided bottled water in the field and and comestibles at scheduled lunch breaks in shifts at the refectory table in the kitchen. Now that the workforce had tripled, other arrangements had to be made—additional strain on Tessa, above and beyond the call of duty.

Towering over all was the imminence of The Wedding—the women's domain in which the men played no part other than as functionaries. Only the women knew how many guests were expected.

_Life was so much simpler,_ Illya concluded, _when all I had to do was whatever I was told to do and go wherever they sent me._

############

_**In the kitchen…**_

In the melee of men streaming in and claiming places at the table, Katie managed to isolate her father long enough for an embrace and a kiss.

"Eli told me what's going on," she murmured in his ear. "You look tired, Tato."

With the memory of Donald still fresh in her mind, Katie couldn't help but make yet more comparisons. Though biologically identical, enough readily apparent physical differences existed that she felt she'd have no difficulty distinguishing between the two. _I wonder how much the old nature versus nurture argument will factor into differences in personality traits?_

Donald's hair had darkened with age whereas Illya's was more ombré—transitioning from ash blond to silver. Illya still favored a longer, layered look while Donald sported a more traditional, perhaps more age-appropriate cut that he kept brushed back from his forehead. Donald had a limp. Illya didn't. Donald had no facial disfigurements. Illya had two small, barely visible hairline scars, one on the right jaw, and one at the bridge of his nose. A third larger cicatrice on his forehead would have been more noticeable if not usually obscured by hair. Katie doubted that Donald sported anywhere near the number of other scars—legacies of the UNCLE days—that were visible only in the seclusion of her parents' bedroom… or in doctors' offices. Illya always wore a tee shirt over his swim trunks—protection against sunburn he claimed, although she knew it served to disguise some rather ugly scars on his torso.

Illya spared an exasperated glance for his grandson loitering nearby. "I _am_ tired, Katya. But it cannot be helped. We must be prepared."

"I hope you're not overdoing things. Mama will be furious when she finds out."

"It would not be the first time," Illya shrugged. "She will have to get over it. Eli, go sit and save me a chair. I will be right there."

"Tato… we need to talk… privately," Katie said once Eli moved away.

Illya didn't need to ask if the matter was important—she wouldn't have asked if it weren't. But today was out of the question—and once the spa expeditionary force returned there would be no opportunity for privacy.

"I am truly sorry, Katya… can it keep until tomorrow? In the meantime I shall think of some reason for absenting ourselves."

Katie sighed. "I suppose that will have to do."


	25. Chapter 25

_Chapter 25: _** A TALE OF TWO BROTHERS**

_**Tuesday, June 8th… early afternoon in Angwin…**_

Illya asked no questions as Katie drove to a pocket park located on a hillside to the east of Angwin. She offered no conversation other than to comment that they'd have to stop at a pharmacy on the way home to verify the reason for having left.

At this time of day the park was unoccupied save for the ducks floating serenely on a cement pond. Choosing one of the picnic tables shaded by Japanese maples, Katie unzipped a soft-sided cooler, producing a chilled bottle of supermarket sangria and two red plastic Solo cups. Settled on the benches, Illya merely lifted an eyebrow and waited as she unscrewed the lid and poured a full cup for him but only a half-cup for herself.

He took an exploratory sniff, as if judging the bouquet, then held up the opaque cup, pretending to evaluate the color and clarity. Finally, he took a sip, ostentatiously swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing.

"Nothing like a fine vintage to complement an excursion with one's daughter on a sunny afternoon."

"_Chateau Le Plonk_," Katie grinned. "It was a very good month, I'm told. Do you think Mama believed us?"

"About a spur-of-the-moment sojourn to a pharmacy for some undetermined item? Not for a moment. However, as I am sure you know by now, my child, one of the keys to a happy marriage is allowing for time apart. _D'accord?_"

"And not sharing every single little thing with your mate… until time."

"Exactly. I shall explain everything to Elise at the appropriate time—that is, once I have been apprised of what it is that I will have to explain."

"Dad… the thing is, this is going to take a while to explain. We might have to come up with a better alibi." _Might as well get to it. _"You know of my interest in genealogy, right?"

"Yes."

"Well… while Dennis and I were living in Kyiv, I started researching his family… and a name came up—Anton Feodor Romanov."

"Indeed?" An unreadable expression settled on Illya's face. _A name I never expected to hear again… that has somehow clawed its way up from the grave of dangerous memories._

"Does it mean anything to you?"

Illya was silent for so long Katie thought perhaps he either didn't know… or was simply ignoring the question. He looked away, focusing on the ducks. _She knows… and if she does, so do others. To confirm or deny—that is the question. _When at length he sighed and turned back, he spoke so softly she had to strain to hear above the twittering of birds and rustling of leaves in the light breeze.

"I was told that was my biological father's name, and that he was from Kyiv. It was not a secret."

"Then why haven't you ever mentioned that?"

"I do not remember him at all. It meant nothing to me then—or now."

"You never tried to find your real family?"

"The Tsyhany _were_ my family, Katya… the only family I knew until I was ten years old, when the soldiers came and killed almost everyone. Some were captured and taken away to Janowska concentration camp. I was among the few who escaped." Illya displayed not a glimmer of emotion as he recounted what Katie had already known for years. "We evaded the soldiers for weeks, but when we could run no more they caught us. The commandant did not know what to do with me—clearly I was not a gypsy and I pretended I did not know my real name. I suppose he assumed I was a stolen child so I was sent to a state school for orphans under the only name I _did_ know—Kuryakin."

"And afterward…. when you were grown up? Why didn't you search for them then?"

"By then I was a staunch Soviet citizen—communist _and_ KGB."

"Brainwashed, you mean."

"No. Indoctrinated… just as every child here is brought up to believe that the United States leads the world, that the American way is the _only_ way. That patriotic might makes right. Had my connection to the Romanovs come to light, I would have been stripped of rank and sentenced to a labor camp in Siberia."

Katie shivered. "And then I married one. That must've been a shock, Tato."

Because his daughter had unconsciously reverted to her childhood form of address, Illya understood they were about to embark on a serious subject—one which, perhaps, he wasn't prepared to discuss. "You have no idea. I believe it is now my turn to ask questions. Why are we here, Katya? What is it you are wanting to say?"

############

_**The moment of truth…**_

"You have a brother, Tato." It spilled out before she could check herself.

Illya said nothing, unblinking, and continuing to regard Katie as if she had spoken in Esperanto.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"I had many brothers… sisters, too," he said slowly. "I watched them die, one after another—shot, bayoneted, starved, frozen."

The grief was there, if only for an instant, on his face and in his voice. If she hadn't been watching intently she would have missed it.

"I'm not speaking of your adopted family, but a _biological_ brother."

He was shaking his head. "No. Anton brought only one child to the camp. Had there been another, I would have been told. Unless perhaps there was one that died along the way from… wherever he had come from."

Katie closed her eyes for a moment. _This isn't going to be an easy sell… but then, I hadn't expected it would be._" Tato, please remember that I _am_ a scientist. I've done my homework. I required proof… and I found it."

"Show me."

"Back at the house."

"Then tell me."

"That's what I'm _trying_ to do, Tato." _Patience, Katie! _Her father had now gone into inscrutability mode… his defense against unpleasantness.

"On September 19, 1933, identical twins were born out of wedlock in Scotland to Anton Feodor Romanov and his mistress. When the infants were two weeks old, Anton kidnapped one of them and disappeared. A year later he and the child surfaced in Poland, on their way to Kyiv… less than six hundred miles from the family home… but they never got there."

"Where did you obtain this information?" Illya asked cautiously.

"Dennis' great-grandmother, first cousin to Anton. _Bobchi_ Agata was ninety-nine when I interviewed her."

"A fairy tale based on the senile ramblings of a nonagenerian?" Illya scoffed mildly. "Really, Katya… I am surprised you bought it. Why has not Dennis ever mentioned this… or his parents?"

"A lot of Romanovs went missing back then, and were presumed dead. As far as they knew, this great-uncle was among them. No one had ever asked Agata about Anton until I came along. By the way, with her permission I recorded the interview and I have a transcript. She was quite lucid for her age… and very funny."

"But how could she have known…?"

"Letters he'd written home, during the affair and later while on the run. I have them."

"That still does not prove…"

"Don't be tiresome, Tato. I haven't finished. Twelve years later the family were contacted by a Roma survivor of the pogrom, who told of the death of Anton and of the child having been left with the leader, Pavel Kuryakin." _At last… a crack in the façade of indifference._

"How long have you known of this, Katya?" Illya asked, frowning. "And why are you only now coming forth with it?"

"As I said… since Kyiv. But only last week was I able to solve the puzzle."

"Puzzle? What puzzle?"

"What became of the _other_ child… the one left with the mother. The one who has supplied the missing pieces."

"You mean… he's still alive?" Illya leaned forward, unable to maintain even a semblance of reserve.

_Finally, I've got his attention…_ "Very much so. And why wouldn't he be? _You're_ still here, aren't you?"

"You have met him… in person?"

"I have. His name is Donald Mallard. He's a naturalized U.S. citizen, living in Washington, D.C."

Illya's expression of incredulity was priceless.

############

_**The moment of acceptance…**_

Katie had never known her father to be utterly confounded… as he was now… or so unnerved, hands clenched together so tightly the knuckles were white.

"I… I… I do not know what to say," he choked out.

"Well… let's see. For starters… _'Yes, I want to meet him'_ or _'No, I don't want to meet him'_ or _'When can we meet?'_ He's here waiting and not far away. The rest is up to you. Have some more wine and give it a think."

The 'thinking' took up five very long minutes while the bottle was emptied.

"Guess I should have brought something stronger, huh?" Katie observed. She'd had only the half-cup as she was driving.

Illya gave her a wan smile. "It appears we will have to find a better excuse for being absent without leave this evening as well."

"Does this mean you want to go… _now?_"

"There may never be a better time… or even _another_ time, if things go sideways. I assume Eli told you?"

"He did. I'm positive you've got it covered, Tato. I'd better give Donald a call, then." Fishing in her bag for the phone, Katie punched in the number.

"Donald… it's Katie. Are you ready for this? I've told him and he wants to meet. Yup… now. What? Are you kidding? Hang on…"

Stifling a laugh, Katie first looked at her father's shirt, then peered under the picnic table. "Jeez! I thought only women did this. Checked cotton shirt, jeans and Docksiders. Okay, okay. I understand. We'll be there in fifteen minutes. Bye."

"He wanted to know what I was _wearing?_" Illya queried incredulously. "Is he… ah…?"

"No, Tato. At least, I didn't get that impression. That said, he's not at all like you." Swinging her legs over the bench, Katie stood up and packed their trash into the cooler.

"How are we different if we are identical?" Illya asked as they went to the car.

Checking to be sure Illya was securely strapped in, Katie pulled onto the paved drive and turned in the opposite direction from the way they'd arrived.

"Physically, you're almost carbon copies. Otherwise, you'll have to judge for yourself. We met only last Friday so I don't know that much about him."

"What if he does not like what he sees?" Illya persisted.

"Funnily enough, he said the same about you. Let's just see how it goes, Tato."

"What have you told him about… before Switzerland?"

"Nothing. I'm leaving that to you. And while you're getting acquainted, I'll be thinking how we're going to spring this surprise on the rest of the family."

Illya fell silent again, recalling the other imbroglio waiting back at the hacienda.


	26. Chapter 26

_Chapter 26: _** EAST MEETS WEST**

_**Still Tuesday… Wine Country Inn & Cottages, Deer Park…**_

Pulling the Forester up to the farthermost cottage in the complex, Katie deliberately prolonged the process of shutting down the vehicle. These newer models had such complicated arrays of dials, knobs, displays and levers one almost needed an engineering degree to sort them out. Illya hadn't made a move to undo his seat belt. Instead, he continued sitting ramrod straight, hands on thighs, staring stonily through the windshield. Katie climbed out, gently closing her door, and walked around to the other side to open the passenger door.

"Too late for cold feet, Tato. Come on."

When there was no response to her rap on the door, Katie swiped the duplicate key card. Illya stopped abruptly just inside the threshold. From their position at the entranceway, they had a straight view across the living room through the open sliding doors to the deck, where a figure stood with his back to them. Katie wasn't sure he'd heard them come in, but as she nudged her father forward toward the lounge, Donald turned and walked through the doors toward them. The advances came to a halt just out of handshake reach, the two men regarding each other in stilled amazement.

"Illya, meet Donald—Donald, meet Illya," Katie said, noting with approval the care Donald had taken in dressing as casually as he could manage in order to match the description given… rumpled solid blue shirt, khaki pants and deck shoes. No pleated suit pants, starched white shirt, suspenders or bow tie in evidence. Standing back, she waited to see who would make the first overture… betting on Donald.

As expected, Donald breached the awkward gap with a shy smile. "I can't quite decide if this is the most shocking event of my entire life… or the most thrilling surprise."

"I must admit to a similar sensation," Illya said stiffly, surprising the heck out of his daughter by taking the first step forward and extending _both_ hands to his brother. She had to suppress a bubble of laughter as they stood there, holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes like a pair of elderly queens on a first date.

"Why don't you two go sit on the deck and get acquainted while I fix drinks?"

"Capital idea!" Donald beamed, tugging his gobsmacked brother toward the sliding doors.

Out of the corner of her eye, Katie watched them as she arranged two heavy tumblers on a tray and poured generous measures of vodka and scotch, on second thought adding the bottles. They'd pulled together two of the padded patio chairs so they faced each other practically knee-to-knee.

"Won't you join us, Katie?" Donald offered politely as she came out to place the tray on the nearby patio table. "After all… if it weren't for your perseverance…"

"No. Thank you. I'm going to read for a while. But if either of you has a question, just holler."

Katie closed the door behind her as she went in and made herself a tall screwdriver. Selecting a recliner with a view of the deck, she could see both men in profile though not overhear their conversation. She'd worried their divergent personalities would prove an insurmountable barrier to establishing any sort of relationship—Illya being intrinsically reticent and Donald inclined to be loquacious—but that didn't seem to be the case so far. Illya appeared to be holding his own, conversation-wise. So far, so good.

_############_

_**Katie reminisces…**_

Katie recalled with exceptional clarity a discussion that had ensued when she'd queried her stepmother as to why her father was the way he was—something that had never entered her head as a child or adolescent. It was only as a young adult that an awareness had arisen of the differences between the secretive man who was her father and the open book she'd married—both Russians.

Elise had been remarkably forthcoming on the subject. Back in his UNCLE days, Illya had acquired the sobriquet 'Ice Prince' as he never spoke unless first spoken to… and even then had confined his terse replies to the fewest possible words and syllables. He'd also remained coolly resistant to feminine blandishments during his entire tenure, in stark counterpoint to his former partner—an inveterate bed-hopper and honey-tongued horndog of the first order. Katie was amused that her refined stepmother knew such a word.

"How do you know what Tato was like, Mama?" Katie asked. "You didn't even meet him until after he'd left UNCLE."

"Ah… but I knew someone who worked with him—a Miss Dancer. She knew your father intimately."

"Intimately?" Katie squeaked. "As in…?"

"Good heavens, no! Not _that_ intimately… she was one of our models at Maison de Ferrara before being recruited by UNCLE. As you know, I was somewhat of a mother figure to those young girls back then. They confided all sorts of secrets to me that perhaps they shouldn't have… talking out of school, as it were. April Dancer was no exception. After she became an UNCLE agent, she continued as a client and we remained close. I always personally handled her fittings.

"At any rate, she told me of her infatuation with one of her fellow operatives. She wasn't the only one attracted to him, but—to everyone's great regret—he fended off all advances and his conduct remained beyond reproach. As he wore a ring that _could_ have been a wedding band, it was rumored he might actually be married although field operatives weren't supposed to be."

"But she never said his name?" Katie interjected.

"No, never. That would have violated protocol. Shortly afterwards, Miss Dancer was posted out of the country and a year later Madam Ferrara retired and sold out. We were assured we were all keeping our jobs and that our new title was to be House of Vanya… and then we were introduced to our new boss."

"That must have been a surprise."

"To say the least! April had shown me a photo she had copied from his personnel file, so I recognized him right off. But I never let on until much, much later… and by then I had a massive secret crush on him, as did we all. Eventually we learned he was a single father when he started bringing you around. For the longest time I believed he must be a closet homosexual as he never once yielded to any of the models no matter how flagrantly they flung themselves at him. And then I realized that a truly gay man surrounded by gorgeous women would have been much more engaging and playful. They do make the most entertaining friends, you know. I'm happy to say I was proven wrong.

"When Napoleon Solo came to Vanya to persuade your father to join him in that one last mission, he corroborated April Dancer's descriptions of both your father and himself. He flirted shamelessly with all of us, waxing positively eloquent about UNCLE's hordes of beautiful female employees and the women they'd encountered in their work. He didn't know Illya and I were married. Somehow, I don't think that would have proved a deterrent."

Katie vividly remembered the occasion…

For reasons not fully understood by eight-year-old _Ekaterina_, her father and new stepmother had chosen to be united in a private civil ceremony. They further elected to keep their status secret from the world at large, which lasted until Elise fell pregnant. Ten years later, eighteen-year-old _Katya_ (before she became 'Katie') happened to be in the salon when her father brought in his 'old friend,' Napoleon Solo.

Katya often stopped by after school to schmooze with her model buddies and scope out any interesting designs she might want to try. Though tall and pretty enough, the girl was definitely not model material. Full-figured Ekaterina favored her mother in lacking the elegance and poise that was _de rigueur_ in the catwalk world. Plus, she could easily pass for much older than her chronological age, as evidenced by the fake driver's license that afforded access to establishments forbidding underage patronage.

Illya always maintained strict separation between home and work. Although Napoleon and their superior, Alexander Waverly, had known about Illya's child since he'd fetched her back from Russia, they'd never actually _seen_ her… or even a photo of her. Thus, Napoleon had no suspicion, when introduced to the brown-eyed brunette, that she was Illya's daughter. It was all she could do to keep a straight face when propositioned… not entirely in jest. She and Elise had a good laugh about that later on at home though Illya failed to see the humor in a fifty-plus man hitting on his teenage daughter. Loyal to a fault, the staff at House of Vanya knew that any discussion of Illya's family was not allowed in the presence of 'outsiders.' Illya's 'old friend' departed in ignorance of the gaffe he'd committed. Illya later admitted to Elise and Katie that he'd lied to Napoleon about his domestic circumstances—the only reason given was that it was for their protection.

Katie emerged from memoryland with a start as a burst of laughter penetrated the glass panels. She couldn't recall ever hearing her staid father laughing that boisterously. Whatever doubts remained about having brought these two together vanished in a wave of satisfaction that she'd done the right thing… followed by a surge of consternation as to what the next move would be.

_What time is it getting to be, anyway? _she thought as her phone rang.

It was Dennis, rather testily wanting to ascertain whether or not his wife and father-in-law were planning to return home in the near future. Although he diplomatically refrained from demanding where they'd been or their present location, his annoyance bled through. The womenfolk had returned from their excursion earlier than expected, the menfolk were set to fire up the grill… and _everything_ was on hold until the patriarch of the clan deigned to put in an appearance.


	27. Chapter 27

_Chapter 27: _** THAT'S OUR STORY AND WE'RE STICKING TO IT**

_**Still Tuesday… still at the bungalow…**_

Illya gave Donald a sketchy overview of his previous incarnation as a KGB agent and UNCLE operative. The Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Central Intelligence Agency and the _Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti_ had never been comfortable with UNCLE's global fiat to venture wherever they chose with impunity and little regard for national borders. Illya Nicoleyvich Kuryakin was still on all their books as a 'renegade' agent slash defector, therefore a possible security risk even at his advanced age. It would be a feather in someone's cap to finally pin him down. Then there were those baby organizations that sprang up after 9/11 like mushrooms after a spring rain, all vying for supremacy under the guise of 'security.' I.N. Kuryakin was on their watchlists as well.

Because the Soviet connection alone would irretrievably damage Donald's career, it would be politic to avoid the attentions of _all_ those government meddlers, considering their not infrequent clashes with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Donald's innate morality abhorred prevarication on any level, even though in the past week he'd lied with abandon. In this instance, however—revealing the existence of a twin—there was no way of constructing a backstory without besmirching his mother's memory as to their birth and how they'd come to be separated. He was too close to his fellow worker bees at NCIS, where everyone always had his or her nose in everyone else's business. Curious as monkeys, they'd be all over this unexplained leave of absence… especially after he called in and applied for an _indefinite_ extension.

Agreeing their real relationship could never be made public, Donald came up with an alternate reality that on the surface appeared satisfactory. True, it needed some polishing but Illya, master of subterfuge, was confident they could get away with it.

The brothers looked up as Katie came out onto the deck. "Hate to interrupt but Dennis just checked in. We'd better head back to the barn soon… and we still have some shopping to do. Have you two schemers figured out a way to work this?"

"As a matter of fact, we have." Illya gestured to an unoccupied chair. "We have decided, first of all, that full disclosure is impossible for both of us. Elise and Dennis will have to be put in the picture, of course… but everyone else, no."

"I don't see how you can manage that. One look at the two of you together and everyone _will_ know."

"Not necessarily," Donald said. "We can still be brothers… just not _twin_ brothers."

"Hit me with it."

_############_

_**The cover story…**_

"As I told you a few days ago, my parents lived apart," Donald began. "Father's reputation as a philanderer was known far and wide."

"Yes… a womanizer of the first order," Illya chimed in. "Or so I have learned."

Donald shook his head, tut-tutting. "A right old adulterer, he was."

"A cad and a bounder nonpareil," Illya added mournfully.

"I thought you loved your father?" Katie quirked her eyebrows at Ducky. "How can you speak ill of him?"

"I _did_ care for the old man, aside from the grief he caused Mother with his skirt-chasing ways. The Lothario of London, they called him."

Illya rolled his eyes and spread his hands in mock submission to an unwelcome discovery. "What humiliation! To find out one's biological father is remembered chiefly as a rake and roué."

With a regretful countenance, Donald sighed and folded his hands together. "Mother did her best to remain in denial… until faced with incontrovertible evidence of Father's dalliances."

"I'm not sure I understand where this is going," Katie said.

"It's quite simple, Katie," Donald continued. "Joseph Mallard sired a child out of wedlock by one of his conquests… a young Swiss chambermaid at the home of friends where he frequently stayed. The outraged host threatened to publicly expose Joseph unless he took full responsibility for the girl, who naturally had to be dismissed. Fortunately, scandal was averted thanks to intervention by our family solicitors. The girl was shuttled back to her family, who were handsomely compensated. Mother had to be informed, of course, but she never spoke of the incident and I was raised in ignorance of the affair."

"I see… but what about your birthdate, Tato?"

"Documents can be easily altered to fit quasi-facts," Illya grinned. "And clerks have been known to make transposition errors on birth certificates and adoption records. I am the younger half-brother by two months… totally unaware of the Mallard family. There was never a connection between us. Therefore, nothing can be construed as compromising Donald's security status."

Donald cocked an eye at his brother. "I assume the 'Bauer' backstory is watertight enough to support this?"

"Oh, absolutely," Illya assured him. "You see, there really _was_ a child born out of wedlock in Switzerland in 1933 to an unnamed father and a Swiss mother—Sophia Haarstad—who actually _had_ been employed as a domestic in England for a brief period. Whether or not conception took place on English soil is rather a moot point… but it _could_ have. Poor Sophia died during childbirth and the baby was surrendered to an orphanage in Zurich, where he was subsequently adopted by Gustave and Charlotte Meyer. The Meyers perished in an automobile accident—their vehicle went off the road and plunged into the lake. Their bodies were recovered but not that of their ten-year-old son, who was presumed also drowned."

Donald chuckled, taking up the thread. "Yet he managed to survive a watery demise and was taken in by an elderly bachelor fisherman."

Illya nodded. "Yes. And as it occurred in the middle of a world war, his rescuer—one Albert Bauer—was unable to locate any immediate relatives. As it happened, there weren't any. Gustave and Charlotte were both only children and their parents were deceased. Albert raised the boy, passing him off as his own. When he passed away, he left 'Elijah Bauer' with a substantial inheritance… enough to see the young man through college. It all ties together very neatly."

"How fortuitous, my dear niece, that you were the one who uncovered the connection," Donald said, innocently.

Katie mulled that over for a few moments before speaking. "I can fabricate a genealogy that works but it's been years since I studied all that backup Bauer documentation. I'll need to review it to refresh my memory… and it's in the safe in Switzerland."

"I doubt anyone will be demanding proof, Katya. When and if that happens, we shall stall. In the meantime, your mother's and my passports and visas will have to suffice."

Katie was still thinking. "Now that Klara's passed, there's no family left in Ukraine who even knew of Anton and the English baby… or care. There's Dennis, but he's already in on our secrets so we needn't worry about him. What about the people in England, Donald? Might they know or suspect anything?"

"I am fairly sure they don't. The part about my father's extracurricular activities is true, sadly enough. Mother never breathed a word to me but I learned plenty from my peers in school, who'd overheard _their_ parents talking about the disgrace of it all. If there had been any spicier gossip, it would no doubt have been passed along as well. It's entirely possible… perhaps even probable… that there are Mallards under other surnames paddling about in ponds all over Old Blighty—not counting my brother Nicholas from Father's second marriage, but he's dead, as far as I know."

"Who knew bastardy could be so entertaining?" Illya remarked.

"You two are having entirely too much fun with this."

"Might as well. Can't dance." Donald emitted a discreet burp.

Katie stood up. "Well then, gentlemen… that's our story and we'll stick with it. I can corroborate the appearance issue with case files from my genetics studies. It _is_ possible for half-siblings, or even cousins, to resemble each other so closely they could be mistaken as twins."

They decided Donald would stay at the cottage while Illya laid the groundwork for his introduction—he'd need time alone with Elise for the full explanation before presenting the edited version to everyone else. Katie would handle Dennis.

"One thing before we leave, Tato," Katie frowned. "Have you told Donald about the possibility of an armed assault on the estate? It wouldn't be right to bring him into a life-threatening situation without his knowledge."

Donald laughed. "Of course he did, Katie. Remember, I was a soldier for a very long time and even my current position is fraught with dangers. I'm not afraid to step up and be counted. Oh… and by the way… my friends and co-workers all call me 'Ducky.' It's only fitting my newfound family should, too."

_############_

_**Busted at the barbecue…**_

Dusk had already descended as Katie turned the Forester off the county road onto the private drive, preparing herself for the onslaught of questions regarding their prolonged absence. Illya'd surprised her with his good-humored denigration of Donald's and his putative father. He'd been uncharacteristically animated, even openly funny, and laughing out loud… which wasn't at all like him. Was this a long-submerged facet of his personality only now coming to the surface—perhaps jolted out of dormancy by the shock of meeting his twin? Whatever… it nosedived right back under the rock as soon as they left the cottage and detoured by the pharmacy in Angwin. As they drove back to the hacienda, he was keeping to himself whatever thoughts occupied his mind.

Thankfully, as no one flew out the door to confront them, they had time to run upstairs and compose themselves before making their appearance on the patio where the clan was assembled. No one seemed eager to cause a scene. Once initial greetings were dispensed and hugs and kisses exchanged, the barbecue promptly got underway.

Demanding private time with her husband so that they could eat their meal in peace, Elise hustled Illya over to an unoccupied corner where they took possession of a small table with only two chairs. She set down the two plates she carried and he'd snagged a couple of iced Dos Equis. Priorities in their proper order, as always, Elise gave her man five minutes of uninterrupted dining to assuage his immediate hunger.

"Did you find what you needed at the drugstore, Illyusha?" She reached over and speared off his plate a particularly succulent portobello cap stuffed with crabmeat and goat cheese. He retaliated by snatching one of her garlic breadsticks. Non-traditional foods were part and parcel of Bauer family barbecues.

"What? Oh… um… yes, dear."

"And what was it you needed that you had to go all the way to Santa Rosa to get, my darling?" Elise purred, her voice silky smooth.

_Think! Think! Think!_ Illya hastily crammed the rest of the breadstick into his mouth, washing it down with a swing of beer. That bought him fifteen seconds. "Santa Rosa? I… uh…" Thank goodness it was dark enough in their corner that the flush rising from his shirt collar couldn't be seen. He hoped.

"I can't imagine why you and Katie would need to drive to a drugstore an hour away when there's a perfectly adequate one in Angwin. Or Napa." With an elbow on the table and her chin propped in one hand, Elise was enjoying herself immensely. Wasn't often she could catch Illya in the middle of a fish story. "Or did you run out of cannonballs for the defenders of the realm?"

_Busted._ "Who told you?"

"Eli, of course. He can't lie to his Baba Ellie and I _do_ have eyes and ears. When were you going to tell us we're in trouble, Illyusha?"

"Tonight… I swear. After the party. Do the others know?"

"Pish! All they have on their minds is wedding. Elephants could be grazing among the grapes and they'd never notice."

"Tomorrow we will have a family conference. They need to know the danger."

Elise leaned forward, extending her hands. Illya took them.

"I don't like this, Illyusha. I don't like it at all. But the wedding must go forward as planned. It will be a very long time before we can ever again be together like this. Perhaps never. At our age we must face that fact… and that it's too late to go into hiding again. I trust you to keep us safe, no matter what. Whatever we must do, you have my full support."

"Hope for the best. Prepare for the worst. In the meantime, my heart… this is for you." Illya withdrew from his trouser pocket a small green velvet jewel box.

_############_

_**When children conspire…**_

Aisling pilfered two Coronas and a churchkey when backs were turned, hiding them in her sling so she had both hands free to carry her plate and Gael's, as he'd tried and failed to get along with only one crutch. No one paid them any attention as they slipped around the corner of the house to the pool deck. The only illumination came from the underwater lights and a golden glow spilling through the plate glass windows of the formal dining room. Aisling used a grill lighter to set fire to the triple-wick citronella candle in a tin tub on the table between them.

"Is this cool or what?" she crowed.

"Your folks sure are great, letting me stay over," Gael said, "and it's really nice of Eli, offering to share his room. Ma wasn't too thrilled about it but she's bringing me some extra clothes tomorrow."

"Why would your mom care?" Aisling asked. "Don't you have, like, a dozen brothers and sisters? Would she even miss you?"

"Just two brothers and three sisters… but she'd miss me, all right. If I didn't have this busted leg I'd have to stay home and take care of 'em. As it is, the smallest ones can move faster than I can so I'm not much use."

"Ugh! I'm sorry for you. Aidan used to hate it when he had to stay home and babysit me. But he doesn't have to do that anymore."

"Hey… I overheard something really strange while you were upstairs changing clothes."

"Oooh! Do tell!"

"You know how if you're being really quiet in the family room you can hear everything being said in the kitchen?" The family room and kitchen both had doors opening to the hallway near the back staircase.

"Yeah… and?"

"I was flipping channels on the TV with the sound off, waiting for you to come back down. Angela came into the kitchen to get some sodas for the kids and she and Ma were talking. They'd seen you go upstairs and they knew your grandma and aunts and Miz Tessa were all gone to that spa thing, so I guess they thought they were alone downstairs."

"Geez, Gael… get to the point already…"

"Ma told her my Aunt Inéz called and said she saw your granddad at one of the cabins at the hotel where she works."

"That can't be right. Grandpa and Aunt Katie said they were going shopping right after lunch."

"So they _said_…"

"'Course, they _were_ gone all afternoon," Aisling mused. "Uncle Dennis even asked me if they mentioned going anywhere else. Was your aunt sure it was _my_ granddad?"

"Sure she's sure. She's helped out here before. She was cleaning the cabin next door and saw him standing out on the deck. But that's not the important part… here's the kicker. The next time Auntie Inéz came outside to shake out a rug, he was with someone else—another man who looked so much like him she wasn't sure which was which. Does your granddad have a twin brother?"

"What?! No! Not that I've ever heard about, anyway."

"Great. Now we have _two_ mysteries to investigate," Gael said.

"I have an idea!" Aisling burst out. "We need an accomplice and I know just who to ask."

_############_

_**Later that night… in Katie's and Dennis' bedroom…**_

Dennis came up behind Katie as she sat at the dressing table giving her hair fifty strokes. Gently disengaging the brush from her hand, he put both hands on her shoulders and leaned down to nuzzle her neck. "Ummmm… is that _l'eau de secret_ I scent?"

"Might be. A girl's entitled."

"Entitled to keep a secret from her husband?"

"Ooooh… _especially_ from her husband!"

Dennis paused and their eyes met in the mirror. "Seriously? I mean… you seemed a bit off yesterday… and you were gone so long today, I just wondered…"

Katie laughed at his expression of uncertainty. "Wondered what? If I were seeing another man?" she teased.

"Well…are you?" Dennis suddenly looked glum and Katie took pity on him.

"Honestly, Dennis… you're _so_ easy to wind up. Think! Supposing I had a lover, would I be taking my father along to meet him?"

"No… I guess not. But something's not right. I wish you'd just come out with it."

"Nothing's wrong. However, as you're begging so nicely, here's a clue: a delightful little man will be coming into our lives very soon."

"I knew it!" Dennis raised his voice. "Eva's pregnant, isn't she?" he demanded. "I never approved of them living together, you know."

"Keep it down, dear. You'll wake the whole house. She's not preggers and frankly these days nobody would care if she were."

"Eli, then… has he got some girl in trouble?" Dennis persisted. "Because if he has…"

"Honey… this isn't about babies. Well… in a way it is, but not current ones. This baby story begins in 1933."

"What? You're not making any sense."

"Dennis, my love… simmer down and have a seat."

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dennis leaned forward expectantly as Katie turned around her stool to face him.

"You're not going to believe this…"

_############_

_**At the same time… in Elise's and Illya's bedroom…**_

"Are you planning to wear those to bed?"

Elise sat at the dressing table, turning her head from side to side, smiling as amethysts and emeralds caught and refracted light from the makeup mirror. Reluctantly, she removed the earrings and nestled them back in the velvet box. Turning off the lights, she joined her husband in bed.

"I didn't think you were paying attention when I was admiring those, that day we went shopping."

"I always pay attention, my sweet. That is why Katie and I went to Santa Rosa today." A small but convenient untruth, as it worked out, because he'd already had them. While Elise was trying on a sundress she'd spotted in a boutique window, Illya'd said he was going to check out the bookstore next door. Instead, he'd hustled back to the jeweler's and purchased the earrings, intending them as a surprise on some future though undetermined occasion.

"In that case I forgive you for being gone so long."

"You are too gracious. They were meant to be a Christmas present."

"But you just happened to have the box in your pocket tonight? Appeasement for secrets you've been keeping, perhaps?"

"You know me too well. I have something to tell you."

"About the troubles? I told you… I already know about it."

"That is partly it, but no… it is something else."

There was enough ambient light from the nightlights in the room to illuminate their faces. Elise turned on her side to face him.

"Kuryakin, you'd better not be having an affair," she growled softly.

"Believe me… an affair would be small potatoes compared to what I have learned only this afternoon, thanks to Katie."

_############_

_**Meanwhile… in the other wing…**_

The upper floor of the hacienda's west wing featured four bedrooms with king beds for couples. Chris and Sarah were installed in the third while Maria had the fourth to herself. The four bedrooms in the east wing were set up with twin beds or bunks for singles and/or children. When Eli and Eva came to live there, they'd each had their own bedrooms. Eventually Bob migrated from the cottage to join them upstairs, until he and then Eva went off to college. As they'd been living together openly for some time, no one took issue with their sharing Bob's old bedroom at the cottage. The last room along the gallery in the 'kids' wing had been and still was Eli's.

Noah and Olivia were young enough to share a room, leaving a private room each for Aidan and Aisling. When Gael had been invited to stay over, some accommodation had to be made, so Eli volunteered to share. Initially there was some question that Gael might have difficulty negotiating the stairs but he managed on his own. Eli also offered to assist Gael in showering as that had to be accomplished with the casted leg outside the shower curtain.

They'd both just settled down for the night but weren't quite asleep when came a timid scratching at the door. Eli grabbed his boxers off the floor. "Hang on a minute…"

He cracked open the door to find a barefooted Aisling in her nightgown and robe.

"What is it?"

"I need to talk to you. Can I come in?"

"Can't it wait 'til morning?"

"Please, Eli. It's important. It's about Grandpa. Gael knows."

Eli glanced over his shoulder to make sure his roomie was decently covered up. "Okay then… but make it quick… and quiet."

When his cousin slipped out fifteen minutes later, Eli crawled back into bed and lay there wondering about the mystery man his grandfather had sneaked away to see… and his own mother's part in it.


	28. Chapter 28

_Chapter 28: _** THE LUNCHEON POSSE**

_**Wednesday, June 9th…**_

All was _almost_ in readiness for the wedding. Suits and gowns, meticulously inspected by Elise, hung on a garment rack in the library. Favors, arrangements and other decorations filled the informal dining room, awaiting distribution. The retired lunch ladies helped Rosalia and Angela in the kitchen, where as many dishes as could be prepared ahead of time were packed into a rented commercial refrigerator. The cleaning ladies from the temp agency industriously dusted, polished and vacuumed the entire downstairs portions of the hacienda. The rental company's truck arrived that morning and disgorged its load of tables, chairs, tentage, tablecloths, dishes, flatware and glassware. Experienced waitstaff had been recruited from among the older teenagers of the vinery workers. On the morning of the wedding, Pearl Everidge and her daughter Opal—friends of Tessa's who owned a beauty salon—would come to attend to hair, makeup and whatever manicures and pedicures needed touchups. Chef Julia LeBoef would arrive in the late morning. Tessa seemed to be everywhere at once, ticking off items from her list of to-dos.

Carl hadn't been idle, either. Vinery operations were far enough along that they could be lightened if not entirely suspended for several days and workers assigned elsewhere. Employees were instructed to park behind the stables for the duration, opening up the front parking area for wedding guests. The entire crew—both permanent and temporary, including waitstaff—had been outfitted with black shirts emblazoned with the vinery's logo, to be worn on the actual day of the wedding. Teenagers assigned to parking patrol would additionally be wearing orange vests. Two would be stationed at the entrance gate, checking invitations. Older men would be stationed nearer the house to provide general security. Younger, fitter individuals would continue patrolling the perimeter of the estate. Everyone had been equipped with two-way radios.

The Bauer family now had three days to relax before the event. For once they all managed to straggle to the dining room for breakfast at the same time. Catching Katie's eye, Elise announced that she and Illya were going out to lunch with Katie and Dennis.

"We are?" Dennis asked. "I don't remember…"

Katie stopped him. "That's because Mama and I just decided when we were coming downstairs."

"Oh."

"Anyplace special?" Maria inquired.

"I want to try the buffet at that Wine Country place," Elise said. "Hopefully it won't be too crowded on a weekday."

Nearly choking on a forkful of sausage, Eli hastily reached for his glass of orange juice, not daring to risk a glance at Aisling and Gael although he could feel their eyes on him.

"Mom," Aisling queried of her mother, "would it be all right if Eli took Gael and me for a drive this afternoon? We're bored with just sitting around."

"If Eli has nothing else to do and it's okay with Rosalia," Maria shrugged. "Pass the biscuits, please."

"I think we can do without Elijah for today," Illya said. "Are there any more eggs?"

"I don't know if my truck…" Eli began.

Bob cut in. "That heap still stinks to high heaven. Besides, how're you gonna fit two kids with casts in there?"

"He can use my car," Eva volunteered. "I'm not going anywhere today and anyway a convertible's much more fun."

"Would be but won't do," Carl grunted. "Gael needs a back seat to himself so he can prop up his cast. I won't be needing my car today so you're welcome to it."

"Thank you, sir," Eli grinned.

"What about lunch?" Maria wanted to know.

"We'll grab burgers somewhere."

And so it was settled. Getting on toward lunchtime a few hours later, Illya and party piled into the estate van and rolled away. Thirty minutes prior, with Gael shoehorned into the back seat of Carl's black Toyota Highlander and Aisling riding shotgun, Eli had taken off.

Maria, Sarah and Eva went off to sun themselves by the pool, blessedly devoid of boisterous children as Rosalia's and Angela's sitter was back on the job. Feeling she owed herself a few hours of downtime, Tessa elected to join them. Aidan took Noah and Olivia to the paddock to ride the ponies. Bob and Chris had some business in town. Carl and Dennis saddled up two of the horses and embarked on a perimeter tour of the estate.

############

_**The cottage at Wine Country Inn…**_

Reaching their objective, Katie turned into the inn's approach, bypassing the main parking lot to follow the winding lane down to the last cottage. No one noticed the black SUV keeping company with the host of guests' vehicles already crowding the lot.

"He does know we're coming, yes?" Elise inquired anxiously from the backseat.

"Yes, Mama. I told you I'd call ahead and I did."

"Will we be going up to dining room shortly?" Illya inquired. "I am famished."

"No problem, Dad. That's taken care of as well," Katie laughed. Trust her father to always be worrying about food above everything else that might be going on.

She pulled up in front of the cottage and turned off the ignition. "Here we are," she said unnecessarily. When all feet were on the ground, she led the procession up to the front door and knocked.

In a moment the door swung wide and there was Ducky's smiling face. Elise felt faint and Dennis could only gape in stupefaction.

"Come in, come in… thought you'd never get here. I've been beside myself for hours ever since you called this morning." He stepped to the side, gesturing for them to enter, and immediately went to Elise, latching onto both her hands and barely brushing her knuckles with his lips.

"This comely lass is far too young and lovely to be your mother, Kathryn… surely she's your sister?"

Illya choked back a chuckle before it could escape. "Allow me to introduce my wife, Elise Bauer."

"_Je suis enchanté de faire votre connaissance, Madam Bauer. Je m'appelle Donald Mallard, mais s'il vous plaît appelez-moi 'Ducky.' "_

Elise didn't flick an eyelash, sweetly responding, _"Je suis très heureux de vous rencontrer aussi, Monsieur le Canard."_

"Just Ducky will do, my dear."

"And this is my husband, Dennis Roman," Katie said, nudging her spouse forward.

"Very glad to meet you, sir," Dennis said, shaking hands with his father-in-law's double. Still stunned, his eyes tracked back and forth.

Katie closed the door as Ducky drew them into the main sitting room. "Why don't we get better acquainted over lunch? With some advice from Kathryn I took the liberty of ordering room service… or cottage service, as it were." Tucking Elise's arm under his, he courteously escorted her to a chair with the best view through the patio door, then fussed over getting her seated. _Old-fashioned chivalry at its best,_ Katie was thinking. _Mama's difficult to impress but Donald Mallard __wrapped her around his little finger in thirty seconds_. _Clearly he got his twin's share of the charm genes._

Illya's mouth watered and his stomach rumbled as his eyes swiveled to the dining table set for five… and a magnificent display of his favorite comestibles.

Katie quietly rejoiced. Stage Two of introduction to the family was most satisfactorily under way. Had it been only a week since she'd made that first phone call? As the salad bowl was being passed around, Katie formulated how best to arrange bringing Ducky into the fold, even though the when and how was ultimately up to her parents.

_As for you, my nosy son… I'll deal with you when I get home! _It was only a fleeting glimpse as she closed the door, but enough to imprint the image of Eli's startled face skulking in the elaeagnus hedge across the drive.

############

_**The stakeout team…**_

"Well… what did you find out?" Aisling demanded as soon as Eli, sprinting across the parking lot, slid into the driver's seat. Blood seeped from scratches on his face and arms and his tee shirt was ripped.

"Give me a minute." Gasping for breath, he leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. Sitting back, he pulled down the sunshade to inspect the damage in the mirror. "Shit. Those damned bushes had thorns."

"Was Auntie Inez right?" Gael prompted from the back seat.

"Come _on_, Eli… spill!" Aisling was practically bouncing in hers.

Eli regained his breath sufficiently to speak. "Yeah… she was. There _is_ another man who looks exactly like our grandfather… a twin, like she said."

"How can that be?" Aisling scowled. "No one's ever said anything about Grandpa having a brother. Who is he? Where'd he come from?"

"I don't know. Let's get out of here. I think Mom might've spotted me."

"I'm hungry," Gael said.

"So am I," Aisling said. "And I have to pee."

"Me, too," Gael added.

Eli put the Highlander in gear and whipped out of the parking lot. Fast food franchises were practically nonexistent between Calistoga and Napa—fourteen miles in one direction and eighteen in the other. His best bet to satisfy both kids' needs was Gott's Roadside right there in Saint Helena, only a mile or so down the road.

At two in the afternoon the restaurant was hopping. Eli was lucky to score a space fairly close in. He was about to open his door when Aisling interrupted him. "You can't go in looking like a zombie." Diving into her sling tote she produced a wad of tissues and a pack of wet wipes.

"Thanks." There wasn't much he could do about the scratches and shredded tee but at least he daubed off most of the blood on his face and arms. If anyone asked, he could say he'd been trying to give a cat a pill—which is something any cat owner would understand and sympathize with. At last they got out of the car.

"Can you guys make it to the restrooms on your own? I'll try to score us a patio table."

When they returned, Eli waved them over to a newly vacated table still littered with the previous occupants' leavings and handed over the menus.

"My turn. If the server comes by, I want a cheeseburger and onion rings and large sweet tea. You order whatever you want."

Forty minutes later the food came and they tucked in. Eli ran through a blow-by-blow account of what he'd witnessed before the door was closed to view.

"Now look, guys… you can't tell anyone about this. I mean it. Not a word to anyone, understand?"

"Yes, Eli," they chimed.

############

_**Meanwhile… back at the hacienda…**_

The one-hour post-lunch embargo was over. Noah and Olivia splashed in the pool. Maria sprawled on a deck lounger, working on her tan. Sarah and Eva had moved a cantilevered umbrella over to the hot tub so they could soak in the shade. Tessa had returned to the kitchen to check on progress.

"Did you ever get in touch with those Los Angeles friends of yours?" Sarah asked idly. "The ones you wanted to invite but didn't send an invitation?"

"You mean Ronnie and Paul? Yeah… sorta…"

"What do you mean, 'sort of'?"

"Paul's hiking in Ecuador so he's not available, but he thought Ronnie'd like to come so he gave me her phone number."

"Ronnie's a girl?"

"Yeah… Veronica Dancer."

"Isn't Los Angeles quite a ways off from here?"

"Funny coincidence, actually. She's up here at Bodega Bay with her grandparents… only an hour or so away."

"She wasn't pissed because she didn't get a formal invitation?"

"Not at all. Anyway, I blamed the oversight on Bob for not putting them on the list and providing an address."

"Good idea!"

"I invited her grandparents as well. Her new stepgranddad used to be a big movie star."

"Oh wow! What's his name?"

"I forget. Oh… and her other grands from England are there visiting, so I invited them, too."

"Omigod, Eva! Grandma's going to poo a cinder block!"

"No she won't. It's my wedding and she's a pushover."

############

_**Earlier that morning… on the far side of the estate…**_

Carl and Dennis were letting their mounts pick their way at a slow walk along the undulating fire lane defining the back side of the estate when they met Diego Hernández and Manuel Espinosa coming from the other direction.

"_Buenos días, Señor Carlos,"_ Diego said, sweeping off his straw hat. Manuel did the same.

"Good morning to you, too. Diego. English, please. _El señor Dennis no tiene Espa__ñ__ol. _Everything going okay?"

Hernández' face hardened and his mustache twitched. "No _señor_… not okay. Come. We show you." The Mexicans wheeled their horses and backtracked, glancing behind every now and then to ensure the boss man was following.

"What's up?" Dennis asked.

"Guess we'll find out when we get there," Carl answered phlegmatically.

A half-mile along, the fire lane crossed a wide shallow creek tumbling down through rocky outcroppings and flowing towards the vineyards. It continued across to the neighbor's property while another track diverged west, going back toward the hacienda. Diego hopped down and squatted, indicating to Carl to come and look at something. Dismounting and walking over, Carl observed the damning evidence… bootprints muddying the edge of the little watercourse, numerous cigarette butts and tire tracks.

"ATV?"

"_Sí_… yes… two of dems. Two mens. Sometime during night. _Electricó_, I think. Gas make too much noise." Diego stood up stiffly and pointed at flecks of mud on the boulders going up to a flat-topped rock. "From up dere can see all of back of hacienda."

"Did you follow the tracks?"

"_Sí, señor_… but only little ways. They goes _norte_."

Several miles north the fire lane crossed over the road connecting Angwin with Pope Valley on the other side of the hills… well within the charge capacity of a high-end four-wheeler. Anyone coming in from that direction could easily drive—or even walk—closer to the house and immediate grounds. Or could hide a vehicle and trek through the woods… not easily, but doable. This was not good. Not good at all. Someone could be holed up in the woods watching them right now.

Carl stood up. "When the _patron_ gets back, and before you leave, we'll have a conference. In the meantime, you keep circling around the way you're going, nice and quiet, and keep your eyes peeled."

"_Sí, señor."_

Parting company with the two Mexicans, Carl and Dennis continued toward the house. At intervals they passed trails through the woods connecting them with the neighbors. They had gates but all were open.

"Shouldn't those be closed and locked?" A very nervous Dennis queried.

Carl shrugged. "Could but why bother? Anyone can walk around 'em. I don't even know why they're there in the first place."


	29. Chapter 29

_Chapter 29: _** THE PLOT THICKENS**

_**Still Wednesday… later that afternoon at the cottage…**_

The party shifted to the deck where, in the filtered shade of a live oak tempering the warm breeze, they sampled a selection of wines locally produced and marketed by small independent outfits. The topic under discussion was Ducky's introduction to the family. There was no question but that he'd be transferring residency to the hacienda. However, where to lodge him presented a logistical challenge. He certainly couldn't sleep on a sofa.

"I could ask Maria to move in with Aisling, then Ducky can have her room," Elise mused.

"She might agree in aid of special circumstances," Katie said doubtfully, "but I wouldn't count on it. Anyway, Aisling won't like sharing with her mother."

Ducky protested he wouldn't dream of putting anyone out and was perfectly comfortable where he was.

"That is not _comme il faut_," Elise declared. "We can't have our guest of honor staying in a hotel. What would people think?"

"But… you weren't expecting me and…"

"No worries, Ducky," Katie grinned, patting him on the knee. "We'll work out something," she said, effectively overriding his objections. "There's always a way."

"Perhaps Aisling wouldn't mind sharing with Aidan," Elise continued, "They've had to before, when they were little."

"They're not little any more. It wouldn't be appropriate."

"Then what if we move Eli in with Aidan?"

"Are you forgetting Gael, Mama?"

"We didn't take him to raise, Katya. He'll just have to go home. Rosalia will understand."

"Only if you want Aisling sulking all summer long. She's grown quite attached to him."

"Then perhaps Aidan can take on Gael… they're actually closer in age than Eli and Gael."

"Which still leaves Eli," Katie gently reminded her mother.

Elise frowned. _"Scheisse!" _Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, excuse me!"

"No more wine for you, Mama," Katie snickered.

Ducky felt like a pawn on a chessboard.

Illya and Dennis kept _schtum_ throughout that exchange. Domestic arrangements were squarely in the women's purview and they knew better than to interfere. However, Illya did have an idea, which he leaned over to whisper in Ducky's ear. Grinning, Ducky tinkled a spoon on his water glass for attention.

"Ladies… if I may offer an alternative? I would not be averse to sharing a room with young Eli… if he wouldn't mind having an elderly companion who snores. Not to toot my own oboe too brashly, but I do seem to have a knack for getting along with young people. Most of my coworkers are young enough to be my grandchildren."

Katie and Elise exchanged thoughtful glances. Eli's room was the largest in that wing. When he was in high school he had often had friends over to spend the night, so the room had been furnished to accommodate two young adults with twin beds, a built-in double desk, study lamps, a pair of club chairs and extra closet space. The décor had never been upgraded to single usage.

"We'll have to explain _why_," Elise put forth delicately, "and _who._"

"I kinda think he might already be one step ahead of us there, Mama," Katie offered without elaborating. "I'll give him a call." She excused herself and went inside with her phone.

############

_**The summons…**_

"_Hi Mom. What's up?"_

"As if you don't already know. Where are you?"

"_Just heading home with the kids. We ate at Gott's then went up to Napa to look at some horses."_

"I need you to do something for me, fairly quickly."

"_Sure, Mom. Whatcha need?"_

"Drop off the children then come right back to Saint Helena. Don't ask why, just do it."

"_Um… okay. Do I have time to change clothes?"_

"You do not. Come as you are."

"_Well… okay. Where, exactly?"_

"Exactly where you were three hours ago."

From the silence on the other end Katie knew she'd scored a hit.

"_I can be there in forty minutes."_

"We'll be waiting."

############

_**The introduction…**_

Hearing the car coming down the drive, Katie went to the front door of the cottage. Opening it before Eli could knock, she shook her head at her son's disreputable appearance.

"Honest to God, Elijah. You've lived here long enough to know that elaeagnus shrubs have thorns."

"Sorry."

Katie sighed. "You'll be the death of me yet. Come on in. There's someone here who wants to meet you."

Eli did his mother proud. Coming out onto the deck, he didn't goggle or act disconcerted in any way. Instead, he stood ramrod straight, hesitating for only a moment before reaching for Ducky's proferred hand.

Illya spoke. "Elijah… this is my brother, Doctor Donald Mallard."

"Glad to meet you, Doctor Mallard," Eli said with aplomb, adding, "This is quite a surprise, sir."

"I imagine it is, Elijah. Please do call me 'Ducky'. Everyone else does."

"Eli," Katie cut in, "Why don't you go to the bathroom and clean up as best you can, then rejoin us?"

"Yes, ma'am. Excuse me, please." Executing a crisp heel-turn, Eli went indoors.

Before they sat back down, Ducky suggested Katie go to his closet and find a replacement shirt for her son.

"We look to be about the same size. I should think he'll feel less self conscious if not so bedraggled."

Nodding her assent, Katie left the deck as well.

"That's very thoughtful of you, Ducky," Dennis commented. "He spent the afternoon gallivanting around with a pair of temporarily disabled teenagers. No telling what they got up to. Normally he's not quite so… unkempt."

"No apologies needed. We were young once ourselves, weren't we, Illya?"

Illya grunted, thinking of all the clothing he and Napoleon Solo had managed to ruin back in their UNCLE heydays. Just about all missions started off with agents impeccably attired in tailored business suits. Invariably they would return with a very long list of expenses incurred for sartorial damages and damaged equipment, not to mention frequent flyer miles accumulated in Medical.

Ducky, too, was thinking of the number of dress uniforms and fatigues he had gone through during his military career… and the times he had ended up in a hospital tent, subjected to the tender mercies of a colleague.

Glancing at each other, they realized they must be on the same wavelength. Elise, observing them, understood there was some sort of undercurrent passing between the two. _What a blessed connection this is for my Illyusha… to have something, someone of his very own, who shares his blood. Even with us—his family—he's always felt alone in the world. He thinks I don't know this. Has it been the same for Ducky? Even if they can never publicly acknowledge their twinship, they will always know they have each other and are NOT alone…_

Although Illya had once said he had no room in his heart for Ivan and Sergei, Elise knew this wasn't true. His moody, maudlin spells had grown less over the years as he rarely drank enough to get that far, but whenever it did happen he expressed guilt over 'losing' his sons. Not that he could have done anything about the separation at the time. _Could this be construed as a portent of future miracles_… _brothers coming together after seventy-seven years? If so, could not another be possible… a father reuniting with his sons after fifty years?_

############

_**The inclusion…**_

Mother and son returned at the same time. Obviously she had taken a hand in Eli's restoration. Band-Aids decorated his face and forearms. He was wearing one of Ducky's checked shirts… a brown and beige one. He needed a haircut, but with it combed somewhat neatly, and parted with the bangs swept to one side, he even more resembled the young Illya. Ducky, of course, had never ever worn his hair that long. Eli took after his mother in that he tanned easily and darkly—unlike his father and uncle. Out of this caramel canvas his eyes glowed with the blue brilliance Illya had enjoyed in his youth.

Eli'd learned from his grandfather how to adopt an enigmatic façade and he was putting it to good use now. They'd made a place for him at the table and he sat, asking no questions but clearly expecting to be informed. Katie'd brought out an extra goblet. In the awkward conversational hiatus, she poured Eli a generous measure of a fruity red dessert wine he especially liked… then she waited.

"It would take too long to go into details at this juncture." Illya broke first, clearing his throat. "Suffice to say, it was your mother's genealogical pursuits that brought us together. We intend to introduce Donald—Ducky, that is—at dinner, _en famille_, and that he should stay at the hacienda with us. But before we do that, we have a small problem to solve, which is: where shall your great-uncle lay his head? Baba Ellie and Katya have been striving to arrive at a solution. We thought perhaps your input would be helpful."

_Me, helpful?_ Eli was thinking. _In what way?_ The cogs engaged and the wheels began turning. The primitive telepathy that existed between himself and his grandfather geared up to a higher level. This was the carefully nurtured secret they'd shared ever since the child's cognitive development had reached the stage of logical and coherent thought. At length the tiny quirks at the corners of Eli's mouth alerted Illya that the transmission had been successful and he relaxed.

Eli addressed Ducky. "I would be honored, sir, if you would consider sharing my room. It's spacious enough that we won't be bumping elbows and I don't talk too much."

Grinning, Ducky held up his own goblet. "And I would be honored to accept, young man. However, I snore and I do tend to ramble on. You may have to remind me to put a cork in it if you're to get any sleep."

Two pairs of female eyebrows shot up and Illya smiled smugly at their owners. "See? How simple was that? Problem solved."

Dennis just shook his head in wonderment. He had never understood how his son and father-in-law could exchange such information without uttering a word, but it had always been that way since Eli was a baby. The two would lock eyes and commune silently. Anytime Eli was fussy and Illya would pick him up, the crying would cease instantly. Not so with his own father or even his mother. In the words of King Mongkut, it was a puzzlement.

############

_**The plan…**_

Illya's phone chirped with a text message, which he examined with furrowed brows. "It's Carl. Something's turned up. We need to have a conference with Diego and the others."

"Does it have to do the… er… threat?" Dennis asked.

"I'm afraid so."

"Please… all of you… go do whatever you need to do." Ducky assured them. "I will be fine here on my own."

"No… wait." Elise wasn't quite as tipsy as they had thought. "Illyusha, give Katya and me ten minutes to come up with a plan while we clean up from lunch."

"I can do the washing up," Ducky protested.

"Nonsense. Getting you home is women's business. Dealing with home defense is men's. Come, Katya." Elise stood up and marched indoors. Giving the men a wink, Katie followed.

As promised, a plan was in place within the allotted time span. Ducky professed amazement. The others, not so much. They were used to their women's equal and in many cases superlative leadership skills in emergency situations.

Elise held forth. "However… as excited as we are, there simply is not enough time today to accomplish all that must be done. Will it inconvenience you to spend another night here, Ducky?"

"Not at all. It will give me time to pack."

The plan remained essentially the same: Tomorrow, Eli would return to collect Ducky and his belongings. At the appointed hour, Elise and Katie would endeavor to keep family and staff busy and away from the entrance and main staircase of the hacienda. Illya would call the menfolk together for a meeting in the Man Cave. Eli and Ducky would drive close to the estate's entrance, then lay by while awaiting a text advisory that the coast was clear to enter the house unobserved. The idea was to get Ducky upstairs and concealed in the bedroom until it was time to spring the surprise.

To Ducky the plan seemed fraught with stumbling blocks but Elise assured him it was workable. "And even if we're caught out, it won't be the end of civilization. Your unveiling will occur that much sooner."

_I'm to be 'unveiled'?_ Ducky thought. _That will be a first for me!_


	30. Chapter 30

_Chapter 30:_** GUESS WHO'S COMING TO DINNER**

_**Thursday, June 10th… One on one…**_

In the twenty-minute ride to the hacienda, Ducky briefly described the two days spent at Katie's home, comparing the results of their independent research and their arrival at a firm belief in their common antecedent. He told of his excitement at discovering he had a brother… and his awe at seeing family photos. "It was like viewing myself in another dimension."

Just out of sight of the gates to the estate's drive, Eli pulled off the road to wait for the go-ahead. His head was thrumming with an odd familiarity. Was it possible the psychic link between himself and his grandfather extended to his great-uncle? Now wasn't the time to reveal it but he fully intended to pursue it later.

"So you see, Elijah. It wants only a DNA tests to confirm our relationship," Ducky continued. "But in my heart I am already convinced."

In his heart, Eli could feel it, too. And in his head, a gossamer thread of mental kinship was rapidly solidifying. Only once had he and his grandfather ever openly discussed this, and it was in the context of Illya's association with his former UNCLE partner, Napoleon Solo. "Not like you and I, Elijah… but it was there," Illya affirmed, somewhat self-consciously. "At times it was as if we operated as a single entity. I do not know quite how to explain it. It was both comforting and annoying, that lack of privacy in one's own mind. Neither of us ever divulged this to other agents… or to our superior. It was too… personal."

Eli, seventeen at the time, asked if that connection yet existed, given the years since their last contact. Illya hesitated. "I believe so, if ever so faint. I also believe it will continue to exist until one of us dies." The subject had been dropped then, because it was becoming entirely too eerie.

And now, parked under a live oak tree on a sunny warm day in California, Eli explored this fascinating new association with a man he'd known all of twenty-four hours. He turned in his seat just as Ducky was turning in his. They blinked at each other.

"You're not going to tell anyone you're twins, are you?" _Where did that come from?_ _Why do I even know that?_

Ducky was momentarily tongue-tied, not knowing just how much his great-nephew had been told. Somehow, the truth seemed advisable.

"No, we won't. We can't… it's complicated," he fumbled. "The rest of the family gets a slightly different version—not the _exact_ truth, but very close. You will have to ask your mother… or grandfather."

Eli shrugged. "Doesn't matter. _I _know." His phone chimed with a text message. "It's time. Everyone's either in the Man Cave, in the kitchen or at the pool. Nobody's upstairs. We've got a clear run."

############

_**A successful infiltration…**_

In the front door, up the staircase, along the gallery and into Eli's room they went. Ducky took in his surroundings before going to the French doors opening to the terrace. Facing east, the view encompassed most of the swimming pool below and its occupants, an expanse of emerald lawn and an array of outbuildings. Beyond those, some open acreage—presumably pasture, if the grazing horses were any indication. In the near distance, instead of the orderly rows Ducky expected, tiers of grapevines wrapped around rolling hills. And in the far distance, mountains rose above forested skirts.

Eli came to stand beside him, pointing out functions of the visible outbuildings.

"Okay if I call you 'Ducky'?"

"Yes, of course. 'Uncle Ducky' does sound a bit frivolous, doesn't it? And 'Uncle Donald' sound like a Disney cartoon." They both chuckled at that. "Do you live here full time?"

"Yeah. Pretty much. Since we moved from Ukraine eight years ago, anyway. Eva, too, until she graduated high school and went to stay with our folks in San Francisco. I knew I wouldn't be going on to university so it was my choice to stay here."

"Forgive me if this is too personal, but… why not university?" Eli took a long time answering. In his peripheral vision, Ducky noted an almost imperceptible tightening of his companion's jaw. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"No… it's okay. It's no big deal. I've got some variation of attention deficit disorder. It's been suggested I might be on the lower end of the autism spectrum but my folks don't want to accept that. I've never been tested or diagnosed."

"And what do _you_ think?"

"Don't know. Could be true, I suppose. I've got the intelligence… just don't have the ability. I mean… _look_ at them. Granddad could paper a whole room with his doctorates. My folks are geneticists. Eva's gonna be one. Uncle Chris is an electronics wizard. Aunt Marie knows fifteen languages. Fifteen! Baba Ellie—Grandmother Elise—is no slouch, either. She would've become a calculus professor if the war hadn't come along. Those are tough acts to follow."

"Who says you have to follow?"

"It was expected. And now there's you… another doctor in the family."

"According to your mother, you've an extraordinary talent for music."

"Yeah… I'm the original one-trick pony."

Though counseling was not Ducky's forte, he'd many times found himself thrust into the position of advisor to a younger colleague in need of morale reinforcement—usually when an investigation went awry or failed to achieve satisfactory results and the individual lost faith in his own capabilities. _Tread lightly_. _You don't know enough of this young man to begin making pronouncements._

"Eli… I, too, have acquired multiple doctorates—including physical medicine, forensics and psychology. But I didn't get there through genius. As a child I was burdened with dyslexia and a persistent stammer. Because of that and my small stature, I was bullied and tormented all through school. I determined to overcome these obstacles… and I did… eventually—to the exclusion of all else that makes life worth living. That's why I never married… or had children."

Here Ducky paused to see if he'd captured Eli's interest. Sensing that he had, he continued. "I gather that your grandfather's life followed a similar pattern of isolation… until he met and married your grandmother and founded an exceptional family. I was never that fortunate."

"No offense, but what's that got to do with me?"

_What indeed?_ "I'd like to give your question some thought before we discuss it, if that's all right with you."

"I'd like that."

############

_**The agenda…**_

At a knock on the door, Eli put a finger to his lips and motioned to Ducky to stand out of sight behind it.

"It's me, Eli," came Katie's disembodied voice from the gallery. "May I come in?" Once inside, she smiled at her pair of sneaks. "I've come with tonight's agenda. You ready for this, Ducky?"

"Is it too late to change my mind?" At her stricken expression, the guest of honor added that he was just kidding.

"We're doing supper later than usual tonight—at seven instead of six. Buffet-style in the formal dining room—all of us, children included. I've already passed the word around that there'll be a special surprise guest so they're primed. Also, I had a private word with Aidan and Gael about the room switch, so that's taken care of—and, Eli, I presume you've told your fellow spies to keep their mouths shut?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Any questions?"

"How should I dress?" Ducky asked.

"Strictly casual."

"And when do I… ah… make the grand entrance?"

"Illya will come up here beforehand. I'll be monitoring downstairs, counting noses. When everyone's present, I'll text him that it's time to come down… the two of you, together."

"What about me?" Eli asked.

"Right now your grandfather wants to see you in the Man Cave. There've been some developments and the Home Defense team's on alert."

"What developments? What's happened?"

"Don't know. Remind everyone they need to return to the house in time to change. You, too, Elijah. The shirt's fine but your trousers have blood spots."

############

_**The interim…**_

It took Katie and Eli a few minutes to gather up Gael's clothes and personal items for removal to the adjoining bedroom, and then they were gone. By the clock on the nightstand, Ducky reckoned he had two hours to kill before supper. Setting the alarm for a one-hour nap, he emptied his pockets, toed off his shoes and stretched out on the bed designated as his. Normally he could catnap at the drop of a hat but that wasn't happening today. For one thing, his phone kept buzzing, as it had been doing constantly for the past four days. He'd keyed it down to vibrate only as he couldn't bring himself to turn it off. By now there must be a hundred voicemails and text messages from his coworkers. Nosy gits. No… give them credit… _concerned friends_. Reluctantly, he reached over and snatched the infernal device from the nightstand.

Most of the messages (not quite a hundred but close) were from Jethro Gibbs… demanding to know where he was, what he was doing, when he was coming back, was he all right. Technically, Jethro wasn't his superior—the medical examiner's domain being adjunct to, but not under control of, the operations department. However, he _was_ Ducky's closest friend as well as coworker and deserved some reassurance at the very least. Ducky craned his head to check the time again. At this hour Jethro was, or should be, home. Probably in the basement fiddling with his current woodworking project. And drinking. Hopefully in a pleasant mood, which was to say, not confrontational. One never knew with Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Ducky keyed in the home number.

"_About damned time,"_ the voice at the other end grated. _"Where the hell are you?"_

"California, as I'm sure you know." There was no doubt in Ducky's mind that Jethro knew exactly where he was, down to the physical location of the vineyard, plus the name and address of the owners. He would've pounced on GPS tracking the minute Ducky called in with his request for the leave extension, then done a background check on the Bauers.

"_What's going on, Duck?"_ Jethro lowered his tone to a growl.

"I'm about to be presented to family I never knew I had by a brother I never knew existed."

"_Huh? You mean you found Nicholas?"_

Ducky couldn't remember when, or even if, he'd ever told Jethro of his much younger brother who'd disappeared at age eight. He realized with a jolt that, if he were alive, Nicholas would be only a year older older than Jethro. Immaterial, in any case. "No, Jethro. Another brother. One closer to my own age."

"_How did that happen? Why didn't you tell me?"_ The voice now sounded aggrieved.

"There was nothing to tell until last week, when I was contacted by the genealogist who made the breakthrough. I had to fly out here for confirmation. It is now confirmed. The man is my half-brother. He has quite a large family. I have met several of them and will be introduced to the rest this evening." Ducky didn't think he could be more succinct than that, knowing it wouldn't be enough to satisfy his friend.

"_Are you okay with that? Do you need moral support?"_ The voice definitely reflected concern.

"I am quite okay, Jethro. Thrilled, in fact. No need to worry on my account." No point in alarming the man with mention of possible incursion by person or persons of ill will.

"_When are you coming home?"_

"Soon, I should think. Certainly by the end of next week. There's to be a wedding at the weekend. One of the grandchildren. I imagine the family will be dispersing shortly thereafter."

"_You could've called earlier… like three or four days ago."_

"I know. I apologize. I've been busier than expected. Please give my best to everyone and tell them I'll be back soon. And tell Mister Palmer I expect to find my lab in tiptop shape… exactly as I left it."

"_Ducky… wait… how…"_

"Goodnight, Jethro," Ducky said. "I shall tell all when I get home." Closing the conversation, he put the phone back on the nightstand and within seconds drifted off to sleep.

############

_**The makeready…**_

The clock tinkled the wakeup call. Ducky floated to consciousness, completely relaxed. His exchange with Jethro must have been more cathartic than he realized. He was startled by a tap at the door followed by its opening to admit Illya, followed by Eli carrying two sets of clothing on hangers. Eli locked the door behind them and laid the clothing on the other bed.

Donald sat up abruptly. "Valet service?"

Grinning, Illya hoisted up two short-sleeved guayabera shirts—one solid periwinkle blue, one solid gooseberry green. "Elise thinks it would be fun if we went native together. What do you think?"

"Truth? I think we shall look too much like the twins we aren't supposed to be." What he really thought was that they would look a right pair of fruity and flowery elderly gay escapees from a Mexican nursing home. Certainly nothing in his wardrobe even approached such gaudy hues. And he wouldn't dream of appearing in public in an untucked shirt.

"But we do want your appearance do be impactful, do we not?"

"That will do it," Ducky agreed.

Eli swapped his blood-specked trousers and borrowed shirt for a clean pair of jeans and an unfaded, unstained blue chambray work shirt so new it still had fold marks. "See ya at the bunfight."

"Wherever did he learn that term?" Ducky mused after the door had closed behind his departing great-nephew.

"Who knows," Illya said, undoing his belt buckle in order to change into the cream colored slacks provided with the shirts. He tossed the other matching pair to Ducky, still sitting on the side of the bed. Illya had to sit down to effect the actual changeover. "Remember when we used to be able to do this standing on one foot?" he grunted.

"Among many other things we used to be able to do," Ducky mourned, embarking on his own changeover. "Not even counting the things I've forgotten I used to do."

"We both seem to be in very good health for our advanced age, and there's a lot to be said for that."

"Indeed," Ducky said. "I can still appreciate an attractive female when I encounter one, but that's as far it goes. Let me amend that… it's as far as I'm capable of going." He shook his head. "Sadly, I must admit that even as a young buck I was totally devoid of _savoir faire_ when it came to the fairer sex. I always assumed that at some point I would meet and marry the right woman, settle down, produce children. Somehow, it never happened."

Illya faced his brother with a rueful grin. "My experience was directly opposite. Women were over me in swarms as ants to a picnic, in spite of my reputation as a cold fish. Used to drive my partner crazy. 'Illya,**'** he would say, **'**what do they see in you? You're a piece of dry toast.' I suppose it was my upbringing… scrabbling to stay alive as a child, being taught to not get close to anyone—first with KGB and then with UNCLE."

"But you were close to your partner?"

"Oh yes… out of necessity, not inclination, I can assure you."

"Yet you managed to overcome that and found the love of your life."

Illya's clasped hands dangled between his knees. "Yes and no. It didn't happen the way you might be envisioning it."

############

_**The romance that wasn't…**_

Illya had been in the _haute couture_ business nearly two years. His fortieth birthday was behind him. Mrs O'Brien, the woman who'd looked after Ekaterina since infancy was approaching sixty and expressed a need to retire due to health concerns.

"The _cailín_ needs a mither, Mister K. And it's long past time ye should be after findin' one for her," Nanny Maureen put forth in her brusque manner. Illya panicked. Where would he find another like her? So kind, so caring… and completely dependable.

One evening he and Elise were working late, poring over their line for the fast approaching fall shows. He hadn't meant to share his woes but they spilled out anyway. "I do not know where to turn or what to do. You know I have not dated in forever. I do not know any women."

Elise gave him a long searching look and a beguiling smile. "You know me… and I'm a woman."

"Yes, obviously… but… what do you mean by that?"

"We already spend more time together than many married couples I know. We get along. We have similar interests. Katya already regards me as a surrogate mother and I love her as I would my own. I'm the eldest of six so, believe me, I know how to manage children. We should marry, you and I."

"Are you serious?"

She was, of course. And Illya realized she was the perfect candidate. They would still need a housekeeper who could double as daytime sitter… but nights and weekends they would be a _family_. Before he could stop himself, the words were out of his mouth.

"In that case, Miss Landesmann, would you consent to becoming my wife?"

"I would, Mister Kuryakin. With pleasure."

A week later they married in a civil ceremony with a very, _very_ happy Ekaterina in attendance.

"So you see, Ducky. In the beginning, we were not _in_ love with each other… but we were united in our love for Katya. The love between us came later. And it has endured."

"Romantic love often doesn't, so I have observed. You were very fortunate."

Standing up stiffly, Illya picked up the two shirts. "Which one do you prefer?"

"Oh… er… the blue one?"

"Blue it is." Taking the green one from its hanger, Illya slipped it on and started buttoning it while Ducky did the same.

"Incidentally… how are you and Eli getting on? You are sure you do not mind sharing a room?"

"Well… we've hardly had any time to talk but… I have to say this, Illya... your grandson is a troubled man."

"He's an unhappy man, Ducky." Illya's phone burped before he could elucidate. It was time to make their descent.

############

_**The grand entrance…**_

Halfway down the staircase, Illya halted. "There will be questions."

"I anticipate so."

"No one will query you directly… they will come to me. I have always known my biological father was Anton Romanov. The only others who have _ever_ known are Elise and Eli… and now Katya, Dennis and you. The rest believe I was a nameless orphan who took the name of the gypsies I lived with as a child. The grandchildren know only the name 'Bauer.' Best leave it at that."

"I agree. One can only trust that the Bauer connection withstands scrutiny from my people."

"It has held up for almost thirty years. I have no reason to think otherwise."

"Nevertheless, at NCIS, winkling out the truth is our _raison d'etre_… and we're very, very good at it."

They proceeded the rest of the way down, turned into the central hallway and approached the open pocket doors to the formal dining room.

To say time stopped would be an understatement. Heads turned, eyes grew wide and all conversation ceased in mid-sentence. Those not already seated were lined up at the sideboard, frozen in place with their half-laden plates. The effect of all those pairs of eyeballs oscillating from one man to the other was comical.

"Please make welcome the newest member of our family… my brother… Donald Mallard," Illya announced.

############

_**The remains of the day…**_

Once the shock subsided and Illya rendered a brief description of how the 'newest member' had been discovered, they began coming forward in a more or less orderly fashion to be introduced. There were, in addition, non-Bauer diners—the about-to-be in-laws and an apparently unaffiliated youngster with a cast on his leg.

Elise clapped her hands for attention. "Let's let Donald catch his breath and have our supper before the food gets cold. There will be plenty of time for socializing afterwards." Taking his arm, she led him to the sideboard.

Seated at the head of the table with Illya to his right and Elise to his left, Ducky surreptitiously swept the assembly, committing to memory faces, names and relationships: eldest child Kathryn Bauer Roman with husband Dennis, son Elijah and daughter Evaluna; next to Eva, her fiancé Robert García with parents Carlos and Teresa; middle child Maria Bauer Connolly with son Aidan and daughter Aisling; youngest child Christian Bauer with wife Sarah, daughter Olivia and son Noah.

The odd kid out, Elise explained in a whisper, was a temporary resident—Gael Hernandez, son of long-time employees. Ducky idly reflected that his mother would have been horrified at the idea of including an underling's offspring in a family occasion. When he first brought Victoria over from England, yet in the early stages of her dementia, she somehow got hold of the idea that he was chief of the NCIS unit and everyone there was subordinate to him. Whenever any of them turned up at the Reston mansion, she tended to regard them as minions and addressed them as such, no matter his attempts to convince her otherwise. Once they understood the situation, his colleagues politely overlooked her condescension.

Much to Ducky's annoyance, Jethro Gibbs took in stride Victoria Mallard's imperiousness… fetching and carrying with amused gallantry. When Ducky accused him of making light of his mother's illness, Jethro said his maternal grandfather had also suffered from senile dementia. When he'd questioned his grandmother as to why she went along with the old man's delusions, she said it was much more compassionate to allow him to enjoy whatever realm of fantasy he currently inhabited. No amount of correction would ever bring Grandpa back. Ducky soon learned this was true.

At any rate, the meal drew to an end. The two youngest children were taken off to bed, the teenagers retreated to the family room to watch television and the adults meandered out to the pool deck, where Chris took over the drinks cart as mixologist. Relieved that questions directed at him were more in the nature of his work than in the details of his newly discovered kinship, Ducky found himself in the more comfortable position of raconteur. When in the workplace he embarked on long, involved anecdotes he was often greeted with rolled eyes and frantic excuses of a need to be elsewhere. Here, he was the center of attention. He rather liked that.

Getting on towards the eleventh hour, Elise clapped her hands for attention.

"Time to wind this up. Tomorrow's going to be a very busy day."

############

_**In the west wing…**_

Closing the door to their bedroom behind him, Illya inquired of his spouse, "That went well, don't you think?"

"Much better than expected," Elise smiled, kissing his cheek. "Now, tell me what happened at the meeting. Are we to have a shotgun wedding in the most literal sense of the word? I've felt eyes on the back of my neck all evening."

"That is because there were, _liebchen_… eight pairs of eyes guarding the house beginning at dusk. A precaution, my love." Illya wasn't about to let on about the evidence pointing to a possible invasion.

"I never saw anyone."

"That is the general idea."

Behind the already closed door of _their_ bedroom, an exhausted Katie fell into her bemused husband's arms. "Please tell me I've done the right thing in bringing them together.

Dennis hugged her tightly. "Katie, you are an amazing woman. No one else could have pulled this off so brilliantly."

And on the way to _her_ bedroom, Maria brushed by her brother as he was about to enter his, Sarah having preceded him. "Granted, he _looks_ like our father… but do you really believe all this business about long-lost etcetera?"

Chris shrugged. "You know how meticulous Katie is about research. In the words of Sherlock Holmes, _'when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'_ If our sister says he's our uncle, then he is."

############

_**In the east wing…**_

In the first bedroom, Noah and Olivia were already sound asleep, having expended their ration of excitement for the day and not particularly impressed with the surprise introduction of a new great-whatever.

In the second bedroom, Aisling lay awake, pondering the significance of this new addition to the family tree… and the unfairness of gender discrimination that dictated Gael had to share her brother's room next door instead of hers, when she and Gael had so much to talk about.

In the third bedroom, with his temporary roommate already snoring steadily, Aidan wondered why he didn't share his cousin's close bond with their grandfather… or even his own father, whose absence cut deeply.

And between the twin beds in the stillness of the fourth bedroom, unspoken dialogue flickered—which Ducky assumed he was imagining as he sailed away into slumber…

_I'm glad you're here, Ducky…_

_I am, too…_

_So's granddad…_

_Get out of my head so I can sleep…_

_Okay. Good night._


	31. Chapter 31

_Chapter 31:_** NOT-SO-HAPPY TRAILS**

_**Friday, June 11th… 4:45am**_

Ducky was brought to wakefulness by movement in the room. In the crepuscular light of dawn filtering through the curtained windows, he could make out Eli's naked shadowy form, retrieving items of clothing from the floor. Ducky turned his head toward the blue glow of the alarm clock on the nightstand. "Is it time for breakfast?"

"What? No… not for another two hours. Sorry. Was trying not to disturb you." Boxer briefs were followed by a pair of jeans which, Ducky noted with envy, his great-nephew got into with no trouble while standing up—first one foot planted solidly on the floor and then the other.

"I am an early riser by nature. Where are you going?"

"I've got first patrol," Eli said, zipping and buttoning up.

"Patrol?" Ducky sat up abruptly, throwing aside the covers. A second of dizziness accompanied the action.

"We drew up the new roster yesterday evening… before dinner. Every man takes a turn." Eli paused to pull a dark tee shirt over his head. "This morning it's me, Granddad and Jorje Fuentes."

"What about me?" Ducky asked, swinging his feet to the floor and fumbling for his glasses on the nightstand. "Do I not get a turn?"

Eli moved to a chest of drawers where he extracted a pair of heavy socks. "You're a guest."

"_Au contraire._ As a newly inducted family member, I fully expect to do my bit." Ducky rested with hands on knees, giving his equilibrium time to catch up. Although he'd slept well, these days motor functions required a minute or three to get synchronized. _There was a time when I could shoot out of a sleeping bag on high alert, poised to leap into action._

Eli's muffled voice emanated from the depths of the closet where he rooted around for something on the floor. _Does the boy never hang up his clothes properly?_ "Aha. Knew it was in there somewhere." 'It' turned out to be a zip front hoodie which he threw on the bed. "We'll be armed," was Eli's _non sequitur_.

Ducky grunted. "I am reasonably sure I can still handle a weapon and guard the premises as competently as the next man."

"It's not just the house, Ducky…" Eli sat down to pull on the socks. "It's the perimeter."

"Perimeter… of what?"

"The estate. All of it. Eight miles."

"Oh." Ducky considered this. "I'm not sure I can manage walking quite _that_ far."

"On horseback," Eli clarified, leaving unasked the obvious question.

Ducky experienced a thirty-five-year flashback so intense it took his breath away. He'd been Captain Mallard then—in his late forties, a serving officer in the Royal Army Medical Corp stationed in Afghanistan. The refugee camp in which he and a handful of fellow doctors toiled on their humanitarian mission was located in rugged mountainous terrain not conducive to mechanized transportation. With the one road connecting them to the nearest village continually under bombardment by the Soviets, medical supplies were most often brought in by pack animals… horses, mules, donkeys—whatever was available. The soldiers assigned to guarding the sprawling camp found horseback the most expeditious means of getting around, as did doctors called to attend injured parties outside the confines of the camp proper. Mules were rigged to carry two litters each.

Ducky was jarred back to the present by Eli peering at him with speculation. Another unvoiced exchange of thoughts shimmered invisibly in the space between them, just as they had the night before.

"It's been a few years, but they say it's like riding a bicycle," Ducky contributed aloud. "I want to go. If you'll have me."

Eli instinctively understood that the older man's determination to participate grew from a profound need to prove his usefulness—to himself and to the family. "Help yourself to whatever you need," he said, gesturing toward the closet and chest of drawers.

############

_**5:00am, gearing up…**_

The stable's breezeway was populated by Illya, Alonzo, Jorje, Carl, Tessa and three cross tied horses in the process of being tacked up. A lifted eyebrow was Illya's only reaction to Eli's arrival with Ducky in tow. Without questioning the addition to the party, Alonzo fetched a fourth horse from its box while Jorje went for another saddle and bridle from the tack room. Ducky stood out of the way as the team carried on. Tessa transferred items from an insulated cooler to a pair of saddlebags. Illya murmured something to Carl, who spared a glance toward Ducky before abruptly leaving the stable with Eli.

In the meantime, Ducky surveyed the animals… resembling nothing with which he was acquainted. The horses of his youth had been sleek, long-legged pedigreed beasties, bred for fox hunting and steeplechasing. In Afghanistan, he'd occasionally been lucky enough to score a qatgani purloined from some former warlord's stable of _buzkashi_ champions. Most of the time, however, he'd struggled with wiry mountain ponies of indeterminate origin—surefooted and indefatigable with jarring gaits as hard as their mouths.

These four horses were all of a type and average height—approximately fifteen hands, he judged… compact and heavily muscled with broad chests and chunky, powerful hindquarters. Three were chestnut geldings with minimal facial markings. The fourth was a solid bay mare. Ducky reminded himself to inquire as to the breed later, when preparations were completed.

Belatedly, Ducky noted that the saddles—all Western-style, something else he'd never experienced—were equipped with rifle scabbards. Carl and Eli returned just then and converged on Ducky, the former politely requesting that Ducky unbuckle his belt.

"Excuse me?" Ducky gulped.

Carl presented a slip-through waistband pistol holster. "For this… and this." In his other hand he held a small caliber revolver.

"Oh… of course." It hadn't been that long since Ducky held and fired a weapon. Gibbs had talked him into visiting the indoor practice range NCIS shared with the metropolitan police department. After so many years since his military days, it had felt odd again having a gun in his hand, and his aim had been abysmally off target. Not as odd, though, as the slight weight of the pistol now attached to his midsection.

"Is this really necessary?" he asked of Carl.

"_Better to have a gun and not need it than need a gun and not have it,"_ Illya quoted, having come up to them. "I do not recall who said that but it is true. You ready for this?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." Ducky didn't know whether to be scared or proud that Illya had so casually accepted his presence. In the back of his mind he supposed he'd been half expecting his brother to voice objections on the grounds of unsuitability for the activity they were about to commence. But why should there be any? They were the same age, with presumably identical physiology and probably similar chronologically-related ailments. They'd both led active lives in their first four decades, had overcome injuries sustained during military and paramilitary services. They both required spectacles but their hearing was still good, and their mental acuity unimpaired. _If he can do this, so can I._

############

_**5:30am, moving out…**_

The pitched roof of the stable was high enough that they were able to mount inside. Carl slid open the doors and they filed out into the morning chill. Illya noted that Ducky seemed to be having some difficulty communicating with his mount. "Are you familiar with neck reining?" he asked, going on to explain the technique when Ducky indicated he wasn't.

Ducky eyed with trepidation the mare's low-slung head. "Is this… ah… natural?"

"Entirely so. She is not contemplating dropping and rolling, if that is worrying you."

"What breed are these?"

Illya laughed. "They are called Quarter Horses."

There was no quick and easy description of how the American Quarter Horse came into being, but Illya gave it his best, concluding with, "Ours have never been raced or worked cattle. They were specifically trained for trail riding and are not easily spooked. They know their job, which is to watch where they put their feet and pay close attention to their riders' commands."

"It's comforting to know I'm not in danger of being thrown," Ducky said drolly, "or being run away with. I shudder to think of the repercussions should I hit the ground from this height."

"Not impossible… but not likely," Illya said. "To my knowledge, Kahlo—your mount—has never done either. All our horses are over fifteen years of age. She is the oldest at twenty… rock steady and eminently suitable for children and the inexperienced. Also…" Here Illya slipped him a sly grin. "Elderly riders whose experience is long ago and far away. If she senses you are having difficulty maintaining your seat, she will simply stop and stand until you regain it."

"Do you still ride regularly?" Ducky asked.

"I wish," Illya said. "There is no place to keep horses where we live in Switzerland, and no hire stables nearby. As much as we love our home there, winters are getting to be too much for old bones. Elise and I are seriously thinking of relocating here permanently."

"Washington is no great joy in winter, either," Ducky agreed. "But that's where my work is, so…"

"Why do you not retire? You could come live here… with us."

Ducky gave his brother a long look from under the brim of the cowboy-style hat Eli had loaned him. "I enjoy my work… and being around young people keeps me young. My mind, anyway. The rest of me is another matter, but I intend to keep on working as long as I am physically capable."

Illya grimaced. "I fail to grasp the enjoyment factor in being around dead bodies every day. Perhaps because I spent so much of my youth in the midst of death. If you were still a practicing doctor, that I could understand… but a mortician?"

"Good heavens… I am certainly _not_ a mortician. Deconstructing a cadaver is not much different from being a professional mechanic, taking apart an engine. It is something I do by rote. The purpose is not to locate the source of an irritating squeak. As some people are addicted to crossword puzzles, my interest is in ferreting out the _cause_ of death if not obvious… and quite often the _why._"

Unable to come up with a response to such a macabre statement, Illya segued back to the previous subject—the horses in their party.

"As his name suggests, Capitan has established himself as leader, which is why Jorje is up front. Kahlo seems to feel more secure in the middle of a group but will not give any trouble if you wish to break off and head back. This one…" Illya patted his mount on the neck, "... is Ed, who thinks he is a human. Eli is riding Goya..."

They moved out in a line onto a packed-earth path paralleling the board fence of the paddock, Jorje taking point with Illya second in line. Up on the mare, Ducky was third with Eli bringing up the rear. Leaving behind the paddock, they passed an isolated section of vineyard to their left and a grove of low-growing trees to their right. As near as Ducky could make out, they were heading due south away from the hacienda, now out of sight.

############

_**6:00am, the tourist tour commences…**_

Illya reined back to fall in beside Ducky. "What do you know about vineyards?"

"Not much, other than that's where wine and table grapes are grown."

"Allow me to function as tour guide, then. First of all, Rama de Olivo is _not_ a winery. At harvest our grapes are sold to operations that _do_ produce wine. At present we have eighty acres under cultivation, which makes us one of the larger growers." Illya chuckled. "Although I employ the imperial 'we' here, I actually know very little about the agricultural side of the estate—that is Carl's domain, just as Elise trusts household management to Tessa."

Illya went on to explain the route they were taking and why, as well as the features they passed. "As you will see, very little of the estate lies on flat land. The vineyard is contoured to conform to knolls and slopes with gradients from five to forty-five degrees.

"The vines to our left were started around 1870 from Italian rootstock. The olive trees you see on our right were imported from Spain in the late 1700s and planted by the original landowner. His successor incorporated lemon and orange trees from China and Brazil. Apples and pears came with the first wave of settlers from the East in the early 1800s. The avocados are relatively recent introductions from Mexico, early 1900s."

"Why are they all mixed together like that… higgledy-piggledy?" Ducky asked

"When we bought the place, we were told that originally there was a planned orchard, but successive owners wanted a selection of fruits for household consumption so they planted new trees wherever there was an open spot. If this were a commercial enterprise, the trees would be standing in orderly rows, and all of a variety, as are the almonds, pistachios and walnuts in the grove on the other side of the house."

############

_**6:15am, gaining the perimeter…**_

Full light came on quickly although the sun wasn't yet up. The path soon intersected with another unpaved track beyond which rose a forest of old-growth mixed conifers and hardwoods. Illya called a halt. "The estate boundary is on the other side of those woods. Beyond that is county-owned land and the municipal airport for light commuter craft. If we turned right we would eventually end up where the track meets the county road you came in on yesterday before turning off onto the private drive to the house."

Ducky recalled that the private drive passed through a rolling blanket of green recently-mowed grass before winding uphill to a treeline screening the hacienda from public view.

The party turned left, facing a spinous ridge which, Ducky was informed, was a spur of the Vaca mountain range. Ascending the slope, the timbered fringe at its foot thinned out to sparse vegetation—mainly chaparral—clinging to the steep incline. The track wove through leafy woodlands, imperceptibly gaining altitude before attaining what Illya identified as a fire lane. Running north-south, it jogged around outcroppings of shale and sandstone interspersed with clusters of tall conifers. To the west was a narrow belt of much smaller hardwoods and bushes through which could be glimpsed grapevines gracefully winding around hillocks like tiers of green necklaces.

When Jorje pulled up for a breather at a clearing, Ducky was surprised to find how much higher they were from their starting point. Much of the vinery was concealed beyond rolling hills.

"How much of the mountain behind us is yours?" Ducky asked. So far he hadn't seen any 'no trespassing' signage or fencing on that side of the road although it existed on the vineyard side.

"None. Everything from the western verge of this fire lane is state-owned but open to public use. Anyone at all can use it, or come over the ridge, for that matter, although they would have to work at it."

Though earlier Ducky questioned the need for so much armament, it now occurred to him that any intruders could easily travel along the fire lane in broad daylight and simply vanish into the trees until a patrol passed by. _Or pick us off from concealment._

In Ducky's estimation this track was in dire need of maintenance. How the devil could any firefighting equipment be brought in? Fingers of rocky debris from slips were encroaching on the roadbed while larger boulders had rolled right onto it, in some places leaving a space just wide enough for a horse to squeeze through.

"Who is responsible for maintenance of this… er… lane?" he ventured to inquire.

Illya scowled, shaking his head. "That is an ongoing argument. The federal government wants the state to do it but is parsimonious with funding assistance. The state claims it is the county's responsibility as it does not have the money. The county wants private landowners whose properties abut the fire lanes to share in the expense. For years the county has been been trying to pass a per capita tax bill requiring all county citizens to chip in. Naturally, city-dwellers are fighting that notion and have managed to vote it down. And while they are busy squabbling about it, nothing gets done. On top of that there is the evangelical minority…"

"Seriously?" Ducky snorted in derision. "What has religion got to do with fire lanes?"

Illya rolled his eyes. "They believe we have no business trying to thwart God's purpose. He sends us fire and rubble down the mountains for a reason… not to mention earthquakes."

"Earthquakes?" Ducky repeated. "How often do _those_ occur?"

"Oh, we experience tremors almost every day, although one is hardly ever aware. Before Elise and I arrived last month there was a little one point niner that everyone felt, according to Carl. The epicenter was only ten miles east-northeast but there were no major damages—just a bit of rattling and trinkets falling off shelves… that sort of thing." Illya gestured toward the rock-strewn path ahead. "And, of course, debris rolling downhill. Whenever he can spare the time, Carl rounds up a crew and they come through here with a backhoe to scrape the rocks off to the side."

Earlier, Ducky'd reflected on the multiple sets of boots and camos he'd worn out in the barren crags of northern Afghanistan, scrabbling to retrieve wounded soldiers while under fire. He recalled the several occasions the humanitarian teams also participated in rescuing civilians after devastating earthquakes in that region. Compared to that experience, the topography of peaceful Napa Valley didn't seem too threatening. The possibility of earthquake hadn't occurred to him. "How far are we along the perimeter?"

"About a third of the way. If you want to go back you can shortcut through the grapevines."

Choosing to interpret this as a challenge, Ducky rose to it. "Thank you but I'm staying," were the words that came out of his mouth although his thighs, hips and back were already twinging in protest after a mere forty-five minutes in the saddle.

They resumed trekking.

############

_**7:30am, breakfast on the trail…**_

The next stop was higher still—actually the highest elevation of the estate, or so Illya informed the rookie patrolman as they approached a wide clearing completely devoid of greenery. A major rockslide had sheared a swath through trees and bushes so there was an unobstructed view both upslope and down. From this vantage point one could see, five miles away, the Mayacama Mountains shielding the western side of Napa Valley. Below, the hacienda and outbuildings were Monopoly game pieces in the distance. Individual vines could no longer be distinguished and the vineyards appeared as a tapestry in varying shades of green. Ants representing people could be seen moving about the house grounds and in the fields.

Jorje halted without instruction and dismounted briskly, as did Eli. Taking more care, Illya slipped down and leaned against Ed for a few moments. _He has to be hurting, too,_ Ducky thought. In conversation with Katie during their journey from Daly City to Angwin, Ducky learned that her father had no doubt used up eight and a half of his nine lives before even turning forty.

"He's been knocked unconscious, beaten, drugged, gassed, nearly drowned, shot, knifed and incurred many broken bones… and that's just what I know about. Probably a lot more has happened than I've been told. Mama says it's a miracle he can still function."

Discounting the occasional arthritic flare-up, Ducky had his own laundry list of injuries from his younger days—concussion from being knocked senseless (several from assaults, one from an auto accident and another from falling off a ladder), broken bones (three from sports mishaps) and gunshot wounds (also three, the worst of which manifested itself in a limp when strained or overtired). His bad hip was aching abominably and he knew he was about to have a problem descending from his mount. Thankfully Eli appeared below, prepared to serve as spotter.

"Grab onto the horn, Ducky, and come down slowly. I won't let you fall." And he didn't. Ducky's legs turned to jelly as his feet touched ground and he was grateful for the strong arm hooked under his armpit. "Thank you, Eli. This is embarrassing."

"No worries. Happens to everyone who hasn't ridden in a while. Happened to Granddad when he first got here a few weeks ago. I wasn't here to see it but 'Lonzo tattled on 'im."

"Why are we stopping?"

"Halfway point, pee break and breakfast."

It'd been quite some time since Ducky'd had occasion to urinate _en plein aire_ and he'd forgotten the satisfying and pleasurable sensation—just like a schoolboy on a day ramble. Ingrained habit insisted he wash his hands. Eli directed him to a tiny spring trickling from a jumble of rocks off the path. On its way, it pooled in a depression no bigger than a soup pot. Jorje brought up the horses one at a time for a guzzle that emptied the reservoir. It took a few minutes to refill enough for the next one.

In the meantime, Illya and Eli unloaded the saddlebags. Stainless steel Thermoses of strong hot coffee… one black and one doctored with cream and sugar… were disinterred along with foil-wrapped cathead biscuits filled with sausage and egg, ham and cheese, bacon and egg and chicken-fried steak.

"You didn't think Grandma and Tessa'd let us go without, did you?" Eli grinned. Ducky's now well-entrenched _other_ pains were nearly forgotten in the glorious array of cholesterol-packed delights. He hadn't realized how hungry he was.

The respite was all too brief and it was time again to climb aboard. Eli boosted Ducky up onto a large flat rock from which he was able to transition into the saddle. The sun had cleared the ridge and it had warmed up considerably… enough so they were able to shuck their barn jackets and ride in shirtsleeves.

############

_**8:30am, on the downside…**_

The track was wide enough to allow Ducky and Illya to ride by side. Eli had moved up to next to Jorje and the pair were far enough ahead that the brothers could converse privately.

"I am not quite sure I understand the purpose of this endeavor," Ducky said, shifting from one haunch to the other in an attempt to ease the discomfort. "If there are villains lying in wait, would we not be sitting ducks? What do you propose we do if someone takes a potshot at us?"

Illya shrugged. "Not much we _could_ do other than pray their aim is off," he admitted. "However, I am fairly certain we will pass unmolested. Gunfire would echo off the ridge and be heard for miles, attracting too much attention and making it too difficult for any attackers to escape without notice. If this were hunting season, that might be a different story. My intent here is to show the flag, so to speak… to let the watchers know that we know they are there and are prepared to repel them if necessary."

"You mean we're under surveillance?" Ducky croaked. "How can you be sure?"

"Of course we are. Can you not feel eyes on us? And there have been signs along the way ever since we turned onto the trail."

Ducky was stupefied at his twin's calm acceptance of their situation. Though thus far he himself hadn't spotted anything suspicious, he could now most certainly feel those 'eyes.' The hairs at the back of his neck bristled. "Are they," he nodded toward the pair ahead, "aware of this as well?"

"Jorje, yes… eyes like a raptor. He could tell if a mouse crossed the trail… and when. Eli, probably. He has a sixth sense about these things."

"Your grandson has some rather unique… I was going to say 'problems' but perhaps a more appropriate word would be 'abilities.' " _Telepathy comes to mind._

Illya turned toward his saddlemate with an expressionless stare. "Not with everyone… just with me… and, it appears, with you."

Ducky freaked out,almost toppling off his horse. Kahlo immediately came to a full stop, politely waiting until he righted himself. A few paces ahead, Illya and Ed waited for them to catch up.

"There's no scientific evidence to support telepathy between twins," Ducky huffed as they resumed forward movement. "It's entirely anecdotal. If it were true we would have known about each other a long time ago."

Ilya didn't comment so Ducky reverted to the original discussion. "You're not in the least worried, then?"

"Let us just call it 'cautiously optimistic.' Until dark, in any case."

_What happens after dark?_ Ducky wondered but didn't really want to know.

############

_**10:00am, crossing the creek…**_

They arrived at the creek where only three days earlier signs of trespass had been detected. As before, three men dismounted as the fourth contemplated how much longer he could hold out against the rising tide of coffee demanding recycling. No way, Ducky decided. Nothing for it but to climb down before he disgraced himself. Also as before, Eli came to the rescue.

"We all stop here to take a whiz in the creek," he offered. "Except the girls go off in the bushes."

"There are no prohibitions against urinating into a water source?"

"If you're on public land, like a campground, the rangers prefer you do it somewhere else... like a hundred feet away or more. But this is private land and there's not that many people doing it. This little creek goes to an irrigation reservoir... not anywhere near a potable water source."

A glance in the others' direction proved Eli spoke the truth. Illya and Jorje were already engaged in raising the water table. After they attended to their own needs, Eli accompanied his wobbly charge to a nearby limestone slab affording a convenient place to sit and wait for Illya and Jorje to conclude their protracted conversation. Ducky suspicioned the delay was for his benefit, giving him a few minutes of relief from the saddle. Now aching from head to toe, he envisioned a steaming hot bath infused with Epsom salts.

"We'll be home in plenty of time for a soak in the hot tub before lunch," Eli said blandly.

Ducky regarded his great-nephew with solemnity. "Young man, you are seriously disrupting my long-standing assertion that extrasensory perception and other so-called psychic phenomena are no more than pure chicanery foisted on the gullible."

"Uh… how so?"

"I'm beginning to believe you really _do_ read minds."

Eli flushed. "Well, no. I can't do that. Not as such."

"Then how do you explain this ability to perceive another's thoughts?"

"It's not so odd," Eli protested. "Animals do it all the time. They don't speak our language but they sense our emotions."

"I should think that's more a matter of body language and tone of voice," Ducky said firmly. "And I'm speaking of people, not animals. Specifically, myself. Several times now you've articulated a response to my thoughts—which, I must admit, is somewhat unnerving."

Eli hesitated, checking to make sure the others were out of earshot. "It's not like I'm hearing words, Ducky. It's more like white noise. Until you came along, my grandfather and I were the only ones who... well, I don't understand physics but he says it's like we're on some dedicated high frequency wave length. And now you're there, too. It's spooky."

"Are you saying he can hear me, too?"

"I don't know. You'd have to ask him."

"Why can't I hear either of you?"

"I think… if we spent more time together… yeah, you could. Maybe." Eli spread his hands and looked down at the ground, frowning. "I wish I understood why I'm not like normal people."

Ducky went quiet for a long time. "We talked about this yesterday, remember?"

"Yeah."

"What are you doing later this summer… after the wedding?"

"Dunno. Just got back from a long trip abroad and haven't planned the next one yet. Guess I'll go back to college for the fall term and make another stab at it. The folks'd like that."

"Have you ever been to Washington DC?"

"No."

"Would you like to? For the Smithsonian experience if nothing else."

"Are you inviting me?"

"Yes. Come and stay as long as you like. I have a large home and a wonderful cook. We can discuss your… situation at length… or not. As you wish. Perhaps you are too close to your immediate family and need a break from their expectations."

"Can I talk it over with Granddad first?"

Ducky noted he didn't hesitate over naming the grandfather over the parents, which was curious but not too surprising. Mothers could be overwhelming… as he well knew from a lifetime of experience. "That would be wise."

They were interrupted by a whistle from Illya indicating it was time to reboard and chug for home. Struggling back into the saddle was pure, unadulterated, double-distilled agony for Ducky. He hoped… prayed… his nether regions had at least been battered into numbness. No such luck. When the outbuildings finally came into sight he was blinking back tears. A very slight consolation, once they reached the stables and dismounted, was that Illya, too, was moving stiff-legged and slowly, bent over with a hand at the small of his back.

Jorje announced he would put away the horses, which left Eli to deal with two old men unsteady on their pins. Ducky's incapacitation he could understand, but Illya's discomfort concerned him… especially as their psychic link—whether real or imagined—seemed to be temporarily out of order. It _felt_ like his grandfather was deliberately shutting him out… and he didn't like it. However, he couldn't take time to dwell on it. Someone had to take charge.

"Neither of you is gonna make it up the stairs, so here's what we're gonna to do. I'm taking you two over to the Man Cave for a time-out, a sit-down and a couple of cold brews." Ducky winced at the mention of sitting but the prospect of cold beer was enticing—a Yank habit he'd happily adopted after living half a lifetime accustomed to room temperature ale. "In the meantime, I'm gonna go up to the house and check on lunch, then get you guys some swim trunks."

############

_**Noon, time-out and beer…**_

Ensconced in a pair of retired wicker porch rockers with sweating bottles of Coronas in hand, the brothers watched Eli sprint toward the back door.

"Was that his mother coming out of his mouth?" Ducky asked, amused.

"More like his grandmother," Illya retorted. "When that woman says jump, one jumps."

"He's a good kid."

"I know."

"But he's not what you're thinking about at the moment." Ducky hesitated. "You think something is going to happen tonight."

Illya swiveled his head like an owl, unblinking, lips compressed in a thin line. "I am still coming to terms with seeing my face on another man's body. And now I find I am sharing my thoughts as well."

"Something you already do with Eli so it must be old hat for you."

"Before he came into the world it was like that with a man called Napoleon Solo. For ten years he was my partner at UNCLE. I never did get quite used to it. Nor did he, I expect."

"What became of him?"

"I do not know. We have not seen or spoken with each other in almost thirty years. Of the many regrets of my life, losing him is one of the greatest."

Ducky pondered his brother's words, thinking of his long association with Jethro Gibbs and how awful it would be to lose that friendship forever. The time would come, most likely with his own natural demise—he was, after all, older by eighteen years and well into the twilight of his life. _Would Jethro lament my passing and miss me as much as I would him if he predeceased me? Such an occurrence is entirely possible, the way he conducts himself with total disregard for personal safety._


	32. Chapter 32

_Chapter 32:_** WHO'S WHO**

_**Still Friday, 1:00pm... on the pool deck…**_

Given the choice of eating first or immersing themselves in the Jacuzzi, Illya and Ducky agreed hot water therapy would best serve their immediate requirements. Supporting themselves by hands on the seating rim, they allowed their torsos and legs to float weightlessly in the foamy swirling water.

_Rub-a-dub-dub, two old men in a hot tub,_ Ducky thought.

Illya laughed. Startled, Ducky demanded to know what was so funny.

"Er… nothing, really. You are… we are." Illya suddenly looked nonplussed, amending, "The entire situation, that is."

They had the deck to themselves as the children were indoors having lunch and wouldn't be allowed back into the pool for at least an hour. Jorje had declined an invitation to join them and Eli had been called away on an errand. Inside the house, wedding preparations were in full spate, as evidenced by women's frenzied voices rolling out of the open French doors.

"Best enjoy the quiet while we can," Illya advised with more than a tinge of sarcasm. "Tomorrow the circus will be in town."

"Perhaps this would be a good time to take my leave," Ducky said, eyes shuttered in pure bliss.

"Hah! You're not getting off that easily, _mon cher frère_."

"I do have to go home fairly soon," Ducky pointed out even as foreboding rippled up his spine. _Jethro's coming… _He changed the subject. "I would have thought it would take more than an hour to heat up this much water."

"Not at all," Illya responded. "It is piped from a geothermal well fifty yards away and maintains a constant eighty-four degrees year-round."

"This is heavenly. I'm considering the feasibility of having one installed in my home, though that would require an expansive upgrade to the plumbing and heating systems."

"You could get one of the smaller above-ground units and heat it with solar panels on the roof," Illya said. "That is where most of our household hot water comes from, with a boost from a standard electric water heater in the laundry room."

The conversation lapsed into companionable silence for a while.

"Can you believe it has been only three days since we were introduced?" Illya mused. "Feels like a lifetime."

_I was thinking exactly the same thing,_ Ducky thought. _Bingo!_

############

_**2:00pm… the lady commands…**_

Elise appeared on the deck. "Time for you boys to clear out and get dressed. We're about to unleash the Loch Ness monsters for the afternoon. Your lunch will be waiting when you come back downstairs."

"Any other instructions, my lady?" Illya smirked.

"Yes. Use the back stairs and towel off thoroughly so you don't drip on the floor."

"By your command, Your Grace," Illya said as he hauled himself out of the tub, winking at Ducky.

"Don't start with me, Illyusha. I'm not in the mood." Elise wheeled and marched off.

"We are well advised to be on our best behavior," Illya said. Noting Ducky was having difficulty ascending the steps, he reached down. "Need a hand up?"

"To employ a favorite American witticism, I feel as though I've been 'rode hard and put up wet'," Ducky wheezed, clinging to the railing. "I don't know if I can even make it upstairs in the first place, much less down again."

Illya chuckled. "Well, you _did_ ride and you _are_ wet. Perhaps if we plead indisposition we can persuade them to send our meals up to your room. We can eat at the desks in there as there is no table in mine."

The two men stood aside as the children burst out through the kitchen door, then went inside themselves. Pausing to put in their request for room service, which Rosalia acknowledged in Elise's absence, they went through the rear hallway and trudged up the back staircase.

During the laborious ascent, Ducky admitted he probably shouldn't have insisted on joining the patrol. "I'm afraid I overestimated my stamina, Illya. Obviously you are more fit than I."

"Nonsense. By tomorrow you will be right as rain, as you Brits say."

"I'll have you know I'm a proud Scotsman, not a bloody Sassenach, you bloody Russian!"

"And you will please remember I am Ukrainian, not Russian."

"My father can beat your father any day, you upstart."

"My father _is_ your father, you cretin."

"Oh… that's right."

The badinage continued until they reached the gallery landing, where they both laughed heartily and parted ways.

Twenty minutes later, Illya encountered Rosalia and Angela about to knock on Ducky's door. After ascertaining Ducky was fully clothed though splayed asleep on the bed, he allowed the women to tiptoe in with their trays of sandwiches and a carafe of hot tea. After they'd left, he shook Ducky awake long enough to eat, after which the latter reclaimed his bed and promptly sank into oblivion.

Thinking he could do with a kip as well, Illya was heading back to his own room when he was intercepted by Eli.

"You're wanted downstairs, Dido."

"Now what?"

"Sheriff's here. He wants to talk to either you or Carl… whoever's handy."

############

_**3:00pm… Illya dissembles…**_

In the great room where he'd been conducted by Elise, the head of law enforcement in Napa County awaited the head of household. "Sheriff Taylor…" Illya said, in genial Bauer mode extending a hand. "Good to see you. What brings you out our way?"

"Sorry to intrude, Mr Bauer, Mrs Bauer. Looks like you all are busy getting set up for a party."

"Yes, our granddaughter Evaluna is marrying the Garcia's son, Robert. Would you care for coffee or a soda?" Elise inquired pleasantly with no sign of her earlier snit.

"No, thank you, ma'am. Don't expect I'll be here that long."

Elise nodded and glided away.

"Please have a seat." Illya gestured toward a club chair, taking a matching one for himself. "What can I do for you?"

"I'll get right to the point, sir. We've had some inquiries from your neighbors about recent gunfire."

"The nearest neighbors are over a mile away, Nathan. No need for concern."

"No one's making a formal complaint, as such. Thing is," the sheriff continued, "everyone knows hunting season is some months off so they're wondering what all the shooting's about."

"Nuisance rabbits."

"Rabbits?" Taylor looked doubtful.

"Yes. Hares. A veritable plague of bunnies. Our rabbit fencing has fallen into disrepair and needs replacing. Carl will get around to it when he can find the time. In the meantime, the pests have got out of control and we cannot keep up with them by trapping alone. I directed him to set up a target range for our employees to practice on, and all our field personnel have been equipped with .22 rifles and pistols."

The sheriff stroked his horseshoe mustache. "What about deer?"

"The deer fence is in good order. I might mention, however, that as of late we _have_ been experiencing trespassers of the two-legged variety."

Taylor's eyebrows lifted. "Now Elijah… you know you can't go around shooting people indiscriminately. They may just be innocent hikers or offroaders who don't realize they've crossed onto private property."

"Of course. Nevertheless, surely we can give them a good scare by shooting over their heads."

"I can't in good conscience recommend that either… but I'll pretend I didn't hear you say it."

Sheriff Taylor unlimbered his gaunt frame and clapped on his Stetson. Illya walked him to the door where the lawman paused as they were about to shake hands.

"Almost forgot… one other thing," Taylor brought up apologetically. "Folks've also noticed an unusual amount of traffic lately… not catering trucks and so forth but… well… pickups loaded with Mexicans. And as it's not harvest season…"

"It is true we have brought in extra help lately to help with maintenance issues, but I can assure you all our employees are documented."

"I know that. You know that. Hell, I know most of 'em. But your damned nosey neighbors don't, pardon the language. Don't be surprised if Immigration and Customs Enforcement show up in the near future. Just sayin'."

Illya sighed. "Thank you for the warning."

They made their goodbyes and the sheriff strode off toward his vehicle. Illya stood in the doorway as the departing cruiser bypassed a white Chevy Silverado pickup, inbound with a white Sundowner horse trailer in tow.

############

_**3:25pm… a surprise for Eli…**_

Illya stepped out to the edge of the portico as the equipage made a wide sweep before purring to a stately halt. The sprightly elder gent who hopped out rolled with the bowlegged gait of a lifelong horseman. He held out a paw as his seamed face split in a wide gap-toothed grin.

"Howdy there. You mus' be the granddaddy I heered so much about. Boy's got yer stamp all o'er 'im."

"I… er… trust it was all good." Illya winced at the little man's vise-like grip. _Who is this person?_

"Handle's Jack Harper. Friend a Eli's, down from Montana."

"I am Elijah Bauer," Illya said weakly, his hand still being pumped enthusiastically. "Very nice to meet you, Mr Harper."

"Aw shucks… just call me Jack," Jack said. "Hopin' ta ketch 'im, ifn he be t'home."

"I take it he is not expecting you?"

"Nah." The old man's eyes twinkled in conspiratorial glee. "Brung 'im a s'prise."

_A surprise?_ "He is around here somewhere." Illya said, relieved to get his hand back. "Let us go inside and see if we can find him,"

"Shore is a mighty nice place ya got here." Harper looked around admiringly as they entered the foyer, privately assessing that crime did indeed pay… and handsomely at that.

"We like it."

Elise floated around a corner and pulled up short. Already taller than her husband, she towered over the new visitor.

"May I present my wife, Lisa. Lisa… this gentleman is Jack Harper, a friend of Eli's."

"Right pleased to meetcha, missus." Whipping off his John Deere ball cap to reveal his bald pate, Jack took her offered hand with surprising delicacy.

Taking in the man's attire—work shirt, faded jeans and cowboy boots—and the not unpleasant aroma of horse, Elise immediately caught on that he could be none other than the individual who'd assisted in their grandson's clandestine departure from Montana.

"Any friend of Eli's is welcome in our home, Mr Harper. Come, let's get you settled with something to drink while my husband locates our grandson." Hooking her hand under the old man's elbow, she graciously escorted him into the great room. Twenty minutes later, Illya returned with Eli to find hostess and guest, now on a first-name basis and on their second round of bourbon and branch water, gossiping like old biddies.

############

_**4:10pm… a four-legged friend revisited…**_

Although Jack's unheralded arrival was a happy enough reunion for Eli, that wasn't the surprise. At the old man's bidding, they trooped back outside to the trailer, where he cautioned Illya and Elise to stand clear while summoning Eli help lower the ramp. As soon as it cleared, Eli identified a familiar splotched rump.

"Cheetah! You brought Cheetah? Why?"

Jack rubbed his chin. "Waal… atter y'skedaddled, he got t'pinin' bad an' quit eatin'. Reckon he got it inta his noggin he was yourn an' nobody else's. Figgered I'd best truck 'im on down here an' give 'im to ya 'stead a lettin' 'im starve hisself t'death."

"You can't just give him to me like that!"

"Shore I can. He's mine to give an' now he's yourn."

"I don't know what to say, Jack… except thank you. I'll take good care of him."

"I know ya will, son. He ain't no spring colt hisself but he might outlive me. He needs to be with someone what'll look after 'im."

Backed out of the trailer by Jack, the gelding just stood there, gaunt and listless until he scented Eli. His demeanor changed instantly. Head came up and ears pricked as he whinnied in recognition. Eli looked like he was about to cry as the horse nuzzled his chest, snuffling.

"He ain't as bad off as he looks. Week er two a feedin' up an' he'll be back to 'is ornery self in no time."

"I understand."

Though touched at the heartwarming scene, Elise whispered to Illya, "That is one ugly animal but it's clear they've bonded. Have we room in the stable?"

"We shall make room, dearest."

"I need to go back inside and see if we can make room for another human guest as well," she sighed theatrically.

"I am sure you can manage. If it comes to that, we can always pitch a tent and put cots in it. I have the strangest feeling we are not yet done with unexpected company."

"Don't tempt fate, Illyusha. Your premonitions have a regrettable tendency to come true." She turned and left the men.

############

_**4:30pm…**__** a horse of a different color...**_

Eli moved away with Cheetah, walking him in circles while speaking to him softly. Illya noted there was another horse in the trailer.

"Mind ifn I bring 'er out an' let 'er stretch 'er legs a bit afore we git back on t'road?" Jack inquired.

"Not at all," Illya said, coming forward to help if needed. "I am assuming you have all the required certification for interstate transportation of equines?"

"I mought be unedjicated by yer standards but I ain't iggernent," Jack huffed indignantly. " 'Course I got all the papers."

The second horse was a lovely Arabian mare, mahogany bay with a narrow blaze, evidently not a seasoned traveler and anxious at the unfamiliar surroundings.

Illya whistled. "She is a beauty. Where are you taking her?"

"Goin' to a fambly on t'coast. She were a boarder at my place an' they offered me a whopper of a fee ifn I brought 'er to 'em. Ain't been trailered in four years an' she ain't likin' it one bit."

"I can see that. Are you sure you must leave right away? You could stay here tonight and we could put her in the paddock, let her blow off some steam, as they say. Get a fresh start in the morning."

"Waaaal… don't wanna put ya out any."

"I believe my wife is already making arrangements for you."

"In that case, I shore wouldn't mind none."

After helping Jack raise and secure the ramp, Illya climbed into the truck's cab to show him where to pull around to the back, nearer the stables. Eli followed, leading both horses.

The mare's registered name was 'Scheherazade's Fantasy' but her stable name was 'Zada.' Jack waited to see if Eli recognized her. No reason why he should, as it had already been arranged before graduation that the mare was to be sold to the Ross family and sent home to their ranch along with Rowan's and Pallas' horses. And one bay horse looked pretty much like any other.

Plans had changed, however, and Zada would be rejoining her mistress at that Bodega Bay place. Jack pondered if he should break the news to Eli that his abandoned girlfriend was only an hour away as the buzzards fly. Upon reflection he decided to keep his counsel. _Ain't my bidness why the boy didn't contact Miss Ronnie like he promised… and she'd been mighty put out about it. Yessirree! Probably still was. A woman scorned and all that._

############

_**5:00pm… another unexpected visitor…**_

Ducky woke up from his nap… still sore and achy though the Tylenol Illya insisted he swallow after lunch had helped immensely. Illya also thoughtfully provided a large tube of Ben-Gay and Ducky made liberal use of it. Making his way to the bathroom, he brushed his teeth and slapped cold water on his face. Thus refreshed in mind and spirit, he inched his way down the back staircase in a cloud of menthol fumes. Poking his head into a kitchen churning with cooks, he managed to attract the attention of one of the Mexican ladies, asking in his halting but serviceable Spanish if she happened to know where he might find Señor Bauer. He groaned when informed the 'mens' were at the paddock looking over some new horses, unsure if he could make it that far without falling over.

Illya and a stranger lounged against the fence on one side of the paddock while curious ranch horses not in service were lined up along the other side, sizing up the newcomers within. Eli straddled a top rail, giving him a peripheral view toward the back of the house to which the others had their backs.

"Feeling better?" Illya asked when his brother wobbled up to grab a rail for support.

"I sincerely doubt I shall be riding any point-to-points in the near future," Ducky gritted.

Illya introduced Jack, who dutifully shook hands without a blink. "Despite not having ridden in three decades, my brave brother put in a good six hours on horseback this morning without complaint."

"I feel fer ya," Jack commiserated. "Been ridin' mah whole life but nowadays cain't even go a whole hour 'thout stiffenin' up."

The conversation drifted onto the whys and wherefores of the horses in the paddock. Eli still hadn't recognized Zada, working out the kinks with a series of hops and snorts while Cheetah moseyed along the fence line, nose-greeting the equine onlookers.

"You expecting more visits from the law, Grandpa?" Eli inquired quietly. He'd eavesdropped from the hallway during the sheriff's visit earlier. The three on the ground turned in unison as Aidan hove into view from around the side of the house alongside a tall man whose erect posture and purposeful stride fairly screamed 'government' even before the insignia on his black ball cap and windbreaker announced his affiliation.

############

_**5:30pm… Jethro loses his cool…**_

Ducky held his breath as his blue-eyed, gray-haired associate bore down on them with a scowl reputed to congeal blood in lesser beings. Jethro Gibbs was on the warpath.

"What the hell do you think you're…?" The planned diatribe died on Gibbs' lips as he suddenly realized he was looking at _two_ Duckys. "Uh… Ducky?"

"Calm down, Agent Gibbs. We can explain," the real Donald Mallard said, intentionally employing the plural. The dumbfounded look on his friend's face was just _way_ too good to pass up. Served him right for blasting in here like gangbusters. For being here _at all_ when Ducky had already made it quite plain on the telephone that he was here on personal business and undesiring of interference.

"I… you… which…?" A completely flustered Gibbs was a condition Ducky had never before witnessed and he intended to get his money's worth. He savored the _sensation_ of Illya's willingness to play along. Eli smirked from atop his perch. The connection was alive and well.

"Go on, Agent Gibbs. Give it your best shot," Illya suggested blandly, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. "Surely you are not thinking of beating up _both_ of us."

Aidan scrambled onto the top rail alongside his cousin. He'd been lurking on the front portico, trying to avoid being pressed into some objectionable chore such as childminding, when the latest visitor arrived, asking after Doctor Mallard. Rather than taking him through the house where the womenfolk were arguing, he led the man around the side to where he knew Grandpa, Uncle Ducky, Cousin Eli and some unknown old geezer were yakking by the paddock.

Jack Harper prudently backed out of accidental strike range in case violence ensued. Whoever this long tall character was, he didn't appear to have much of a sense of humor. It seemed to Jack that his new acquaintances were set on sticking it to the government man—whatever NCIS stood for—and he was all for _that_.

Jethro flushed, rocked back on his heels and put the hairy eyeball on his prey. Unfortunately, the unnerving stare that famously extracted confessions from the most hardened recalcitrants wasn't working too well… it was impossible to focus on two men at the same time. They retaliated by staring back in wide-eyed innocence. No one spoke as the impasse continued.

It was into this scenario that Elise breezed, once again the formidable matron of ceremonies. "Whatever's going on here, stop this instant," she commanded, pointing a finger. "Ducky, please take your caller to the great room and entertain him there." The finger redirected. "Elijah, Carl needs you in the office. As for you boys…" The finger swiveled upwards. "If you have nothing better to do, I will _find_ something."

The who's who game was up.


	33. Chapter 33

_Chapter 33:_** NOTHING EXCEEDS LIKE EXCESS**

_**Still Friday, 8:00pm in the hacienda…**_

Supper than evening was a noisy and confused affair. Rosalia and Angela set up a buffet line before going home. First comers ate at the dining room table while the spillovers carried their plates to the refectory table in the kitchen.

After eating, the three younger children were bundled off to bed. Aidan, Aisling and Gael played video games in the family room. While the women of the house busied themselves with washing up and setting the kitchen to rights, the menfolk retreated to the Man Cave to schedule guard duty.

Everyone agreed nighttime perimeter patrols were impractical, but that a gauntlet of watchers was advisable. Carl and Illya reckoned that a two-man team at each corner of the house would suffice, hidden well back in the trees but with a clear view of two sides of the building. Each squad of eight would be relieved every four hours. Communication would be maintained by cell phone in vibrate mode. Talking in whispers only, no smoking, no showing of lights, eyes on doors and ground floor windows at all times and—although everyone was equipped with a sidearm—no shooting unless absolutely necessary, which wasn't likely to happen.

"What if someone shoots at us first, Dido?" Eli queried.

Illya grinned. "Then you may shoot back. That is why we had target practice."

Carl spoke up. "A word of caution, boys. If it _should_ come down to a firefight, make every effort to disable rather than kill. But… and it's a big BUT… do whatever you gotta do to stay alive. I'm not prepared to lose one single man on _my_ watch." He repeated it in Spanish to make sure everyone understood.

Jethro Gibbs, standing at the back of the assembly, rolled his eyes. This most certainly wasn't the circumstance from which he'd expected to have to spring Ducky, much less find himself being sucked into some kind of domestic anti-terrorist army composed mainly of Mexican fieldworkers. Illya at first resisted the idea of sharing their situation with another outsider. However, Ducky's fervid affirmation of his friend's combat credentials reversed his thinking on that score. Carl needed no such encouragement once he discovered a fellow leatherneck in the ranks. _Semper fi!_

Shortly after nightfall, Carl García, brothers Pedro and Sebastián Bustillo, Manuel Espinosa and his father Alejandro, Jorje Fuentes and his cousin Felipe and Edmundo López unobtrusively slipped away into the dark and settled into predetermined positions. The relief crew sacked out on cots lined up in the maintenance bays—Eli, Gibbs, Diego Hernández and his brother José, Geraldo Goméz and his uncle Emmanuel, and Javier Aguado and his oldest son Matías.

############

_**9:00pm… because I said so…**_

Earlier, when Elise agonized over sleeping arrangements, Eli announced he was giving up his bed to Gibbs and bunking down in the Man Cave with Jack. Elise found this a generous and commendable offer although she might've felt otherwise had she known Eli had also signed up for guard duty. Katie, too, would've put up a fuss had she been told the real reason. Illya and Dennis were aware but neglected to inform their respective wives. Illya did draw a line at allowing Aidan to align with his cousin… and it wasn't because the boy was only sixteen. By that age Illya himself was well-schooled in weaponry and proven to be an exceptional marksman. It was Maria's wrath he feared even more than Katie's and Elise's.

"I did good at target practice, Grandpa," Aidan pleaded. "So why can't I go?"

"Because I said so."

############

_**In the east wing... a battle of wills raged…**_

Ducky announced he intended taking part, but Gibbs had other ideas and didn't hesitate to express them. "No way, Ducks. I'm sleeping out there with my men and you're staying right here where it's safe."

"You can't tell me what to do," Ducky responded with belligerence.

"I can and I am. You're not going in harm's way and that's that."

"I'm going."

"You're staying. If I have to tie you to the bed."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

A knock at the door forestalled any intemperate action on the part of either. It was Jack, overnight bag in hand and doleful expression on his face. "I wanted t'help but they booted me outten t'clubhouse an it's all his doin'." He hitched his chin toward Gibbs. "Tole 'em I were a liability… too old an' cain't move fast enough."

"Join the club," Ducky muttered.

"I'll have ya know I was infantry when you was still a titty baby," Jack declared, getting in Jethro's face.

"You know, in _some_ countries elders are _respected_," Ducky grumbled.

"I respect both of you," Gibbs said pleasantly. "But you're staying here." He turned and left the pair of oldsters to commiserate on the indignities of old age.

############

_**In the east wing... a **_**casus belli**_** was underway…**_

"Just where do you think you're going, Kuryakin?" Elise demanded brusquely as she observed her husband pulling on a vintage faded black moth-holed turtleneck sweater… a nostalgic holdover he'd zealously fought to hang onto despite her many attempts to dispose of it.

"Guard duty. We are all taking part. Every man jack of us."

"That's what you think." She stood her ground at the door to the gallery, arms akimbo and feet planted solidly apart. "You'll have to get by me first."

"Get out of my way, woman."

"Make me. And may I remind you that not only am I am bigger, stronger and younger than you, I can make your life miserable for months to come."

"You can stand there until Red Square turns blue. I shall go out the terrace door and shinny down a drain pipe."

"Just try it, old man, and I'll break both your skinny legs and heave you over the railing myself. Save you the effort."

Elise so seldom got this mad that he half-believed she might actually do it. And he could well imagine the misery an angry wife could inflict, if that long-ago UNCLE final fling was anything to go by.

############

_**And in the adjoining bedroom... a similar exchange was taking place…**_

"I said no and I mean it."

"But Katie… I have to," Dennis wheedled.

"No you don't."

"You don't want the others to think ill of me, do you? That I'm a… a coward."

"Better that than accidentally shooting yourself or worse."

"I went to target practice. I now know which end of the gun to point."

"Be reasonable. You have no experience with this sort of activity and absolutely no business stumbling around in the dark with a bunch of gun-happy idiots."

"But Katie…"

"I'm telling you right now. Walk out that door and you are _cut off_. Forever and a day."

It wasn't that tough a choice.

############

_**10:00pm… the indoor warriors rally…**_

In the end the four would-be defenders of the exterior realm were persuaded that their presence would better serve as guardians of the interior. Having sworn on their honor that they'd make no attempts to venture outside, they held a covert conference downstairs in the great room. All ground floor lights were extinguished except for nightlights providing just enough illumination to allow navigation.

"Is there even a remote possibility someone could gain entry?" Dennis asked, plainly just as nervous indoors as he would have been outside.

"Anything is possible," Illya answered.

"I don't find that reassuring."

"You worry too much," Illya said.

"And here we are without so much as a cap pistol if anyone should get past the sentries," Ducky mourned, entirely put out at being confined to quarters.

"Ain't you got no baseball bats er nuthin'?" Jack wanted to know. "Er do we just holler at 'em _'you shall not pass'?_"

"What makes you believe we are unarmed?" Illya chuckled.

"Aren't we?" Ducky couldn't understand how his brother could remain so calm and unworried.

"Follow me, gentlemen." Illya led the other three to the office, where the household gun safe lived. Dialing the combination, he unlocked it and handed out whatever pistols and ammunition remained after Carl's ransacking. The automatics with full magazines he kept for himself, Jack and Ducky. Dennis got a revolver, which Illya first checked to ensure no round was chambered and the safety was on. In a true emergency requiring lightning reflexes it wouldn't be of much use, but just having it in hand inspired a measure of badly needed confidence in the inexperienced younger man.

"Make sure your phones are on and where you can easily reach them. We shall make the rounds together to test that all doors and windows are securely locked and bolted. All our people have been instructed that none of them is to attempt entry without first calling."

While the women and children slept upstairs, the indoor defense force patrolled downstairs and the exterior guards maintained vigilance toward the darkened and silent premises.

############

_**Elsewhere...**_

In the horseshoe-shaped forest enclosing Rama de Olivo, entirely different scenarios were playing out. The woods were teeming with unrelated coveys of black-clad infiltrators and camouflaged operatives. It was only a matter of time…


	34. Chapter 34

_Chapter 34:_** NOT THE TEDDY BEARS PICNIC**

_If you go down in the woods today, you're sure of a big surprise._

_If you go down in the woods today you'd better go in disguise!_

_For every bear that ever there was will gather there for certain because_

_Today's the day the Teddy Bears have their picnic…_

############

_**Still Friday, 11:00pm… **__**on the eastern fringe of the estate, the first factions fraternize...**_

"Well well well… if it ain't my old pal Major Sikorski… what are you doing here?"

"My dear Special Officer Madsen… I might ask the same of you. Since when does the CIA spy on its own citizens?"

The familiar adversaries of long standing faced each other in the subdued glow of red-lensed tactical LED flashlights. Behind each man stood a squad bristling with drawn weapons.

"I asked you first, Vasili… and your position is rather tenuous, wouldn't you say—KGB operatives on American soil without, dare one ask, an invitation? Tsk tsk tsk."

"Did you not get the memo, Marvin? We have not been KGB for over two decades. We are now SVR."

"Po-TAY-to, po-TAH-to… still the same pack of commies."

"Let us not stoop to name-calling," the major sighed, "… inasmuch as I fear neither of us possess sanction to be here." He signaled to his henchmen to stand down. Madsen did the same. Reluctantly holstering their weapons, the opposing factions glowered at each other.

"So… what is it… or, should I ask, _who_ is it you're after?" Madsen inquired with feigned politeness.

"In the interest of détente and a fervent desire to avoid an unsavory public outcome, I am happy to divulge the purpose of our mission," Sikorski replied with exaggerated courtesy.

"Divulge away, comrade." Hooking his thumbs in his pockets, the CIA man rocked back on his heels. "I'm all ears."

"Indeed you are, comrade." It was all the Russian could do to continue looking his opposite in the eye rather than at his rather Dumboesque ears. "To be perfectly candid, we are seeking to apprehend one of our agents who has—to employ one of your quaint euphemisms—gone off the reservation."

"And you believe him to be here, skulking among the grapevines amid what appears to be a prelude to a party?"

"Apparently so. It is… _was_… our hope to extract the individual in question without distressing any of your highly excitable security organizations, of which there appear to be a multitude lurking about this evening."

"Is that a fact? Well, _we're_ here to isolate an individual we suspect of being one of your infiltrators posing as a drug mule. We've been tracking him for quite some time."

"If I may say so, Marvin… we have been tracking him longer."

"I'm not inclined to getting into a pissing match with you, Vasili."

"Nor I. Is it possible, do you think, that we are pursuing the _same_ man?"

"I don't know. Is it? Do you have a photograph?"

"Alas… not a recent one. Do you?"

"Not with me, I'm afraid. However, we've seen one taken only a few weeks ago. We'll know 'im when we see 'im."

"Can you describe him to me?"

"Short… maybe five feet six inches? Average build, about one hundred twenty pounds. Light hair, blue eyes…"

"So far that fits." Sikorski was quivering with anticipation. "Perhaps we can come to an accommodation as to possession—once he has been apprehended, naturally."

"Not only no but hell no, _tovarisch_," Madsen refused vehemently. "That kid's ours!"

Sikorski stopped quivering. "Excuse me… kid? As in _young_ man?"

"Well yeah. Early twenties, I'd say."

Sikorski seemed to crumple around the edges. "That cannot be so. The man we want is older… much, _much_ older."

"Plastic surgery works miracles, these days."

"Miraculous enough to transform a mid-seventies elder into a mid-twenties youth? I do not think so."

"Hold up just a doggone minute," Madsen barked. "What did you mean by 'lurking'? What other organizations are you talking about? Far's I know we're the only ones here."

Sikorski snickered, turning to his aide, Captain Aleksandr Smirnov. "Observe, Alek. As usual, the left hand of their pathetic government security forces knows not what the right foot is doing."

Alarmed, Madsen turned to his second in command, Officer Sylvia Edison. "Make sure none of our people have split off."

Officer Edison turned to count noses. "All present and accounted for, sir."

"What the hell!" Madsen swore as Sikorski and Smirnoff smirked, unaware that one by one their own team had been quietly sloping back into the woods.

############

_**Meanwhile, on the western fringe... additional acronyms are added to the alphabet soup of agencies...**_

"You turkeys are in deep _fekalii_," Senior Special Agent Irene Edelweissen spat at her captor. "You'll be sorry you were ever a gleam in your dog of a father's eye."

"_Suka doch!_ Djou vill tzsay vut chu doink here," Senior Field Officer Anatoly Godunov threatened in horribly mangled English. "Vee haff vays mekkink djou talkink!"

"And we have ways making you dead, slimeball!" Edelweissen sneered, baring her teeth.

Attempting to dial down the hostility, Assistant Field Officer Samir Vasiliev spoke in a suitably deferential tone. "Sir, perhaps lady FBI person here on compatible mission?" Not unexpectedly, his superior told him to shut up. Vasiliev groaned… but not loud enough to be heard. Could not GRU command have assigned him to someone with even a crumb of competence in the Americans' language? This was terribly embarrassing.

"Soon vee catch udder vun und mek him talkink, too!" Godunov promised with evil glee.

Agent Edelweissen lobbed another foul epithet. _"Schweineschwanz!"_

"Vut she call me?" Godunov asked his aide.

"I do not know," Vasiliev replied truthfully, though kenning it had to be something truly offensive.

Twenty yards away, the 'udder vun' crouched motionless, concealed in the depths of a thick and thorny bush, Sig Sauer 9mm in both not quite steady hands. This was Agent Trainee Angus MacVie's first field operation and he was undecided about his next move. Somehow he and the leader got separated from their group, then from each other when two men in black jumped them. He managed to get away but they had Edelweissen solidly in their grasp. He heard, although couldn't see, other men thrashing around in the underbrush—presumably searching for him. The noise ceased with a choked off squawk and all went quiet except for the original two still interrogating their captive.

When the pair holding Edelweissen switched on flashlights, MacVie realized that even through the trees they presented easy targets. Or maybe not that easy. Edelweissen was on her knees, with what looked to be duct tape wound around her arms and torso. The two men kept moving around her. What if he hit her by mistake? Why were Russian agents carrying duct tape instead of handcuffs or zip ties? Was this standard issue… or were they suffering government cutbacks as well? MacVie could see where duct tape might come in handy.

Before MacVie could take action, a cultured voice projected from the darkness.

"If I may have a word…?" An elegant silver-haired man suavely strolled into the scene with hands held high to show he was unarmed. Unlike everyone else populating the woods, he was smartly attired in an obviously bespoke business suit with a silk handkerchief tucked just so into the pocket and a perfectly knotted tie. The flashlights reflected purple prisms off his jeweled pinky ring and a red glow off his highly polished Oxfords.

"Hoo djou? Vere you comink from? Vut djou wantink?" Godunov snarled, reaching for his sidearm.

"Allow me..." The debonair gentleman slowly reached into an inside pocket and fished out a calling card which he extended to the other with a small bow.

Godunov studied the rectangle of pasteboard with exasperation before thrusting it at Vasiliev, covering for his inability to read English. "Writing too little. Vut dis sayink?"

"It say this man Special Advisor to Secretary Homeland Security."

Godunov remained unimpressed. "Vitch means vut?"

"Means we should maybe probably let go lady FBI person," Vasiliev gulped. Godunov might not yet have noticed that all their backup team seemed to have evaporated… but _he_ had. Suddenly Samir Vasiliev felt quite insecure.

The Special Advisor nodded gravely. "That would be my recommendation. Yes, indeed. Unless, of course, you would prefer to be shot dead right now instead of detained and deported. There are an even dozen rifles trained on your heads as we speak. A dozen more are chasing after your countrymen. They will not get far. Trust me on that."

############

_**And on the fire lane... a clash of the local law enforcers...**_

A procession of peacekeepers stalking north was about to encounter a conga line of investigators snaking south. Their respective bobbing red lights became visible to each other at roughly the same time.

"Halt. Who goes there?" challenged the leader of the northbound group.

"_You _halt, whoever you are," shouted the leader of the southbound group.

"Stand and identify yourself. Move and we _will_ shoot.

"You identify _yourself_. Take one step and we'll shoot first."

They were at an impasse until a diminutive officer with a very loud but unmistakably feminine voice bellowed, "Napa County Sheriff's Office. Sheriff Nathan Taylor and deputies Nikki Noritake, Billy Bob Bush and Oscar Manyponies."

A moment of contemplation was followed by a resounding baritone voice. "California Bureau of Investigation and Intelligence. Agent Bubba Reagan with agents Gilbert Grappa, Tony DeMarco and Esther Bernstein."

"This here's my turf so this is how it'll go," Sheriff Taylor commanded loudly. "I'll walk forward and so will Mr Reagan—just the two of us, and show each other our credentials."

"Works for me," flung back the owner of the nice baritone voice, Lead Agent Reagan. They advanced toward each other and flashed their identification. Satisfied, they turned toward their teams and signaled that it was safe to approach.

"Might I point out to you, Taylor, that _all_ of California is under our jurisdiction," Reagan said stiffly.

"Only in cooperation with local authorities, Reagan," Taylor stated firmly. "Mind explaining what you're doing here?"

"Got a tipoff from the feds about something going down with foreign illegals… specifically, Russians. Your turn."

"It's complicated… but the folks who own this place been having trouble with trespassers. Had a talk with Mr Bauer—he's the property owner—but I got a feeling there's more to it than what he said. They're a whole lot more gunned up than they oughta be. Hadda scratch that itch, know what I mean?"

Reagan nodded in agreement. Rather than going by the book, following one's intuition often resulted in more favorable results. So did deferring to local knowledge when you weren't familiar with the territory. "So how you want to handle this?"

They were still mulling tactics when a single shot rang out… followed by another and another… and then a barrage of gunfire.

"Ohshit," both men mouthed simultaneously, along with a chorus from their backups.

############

_**A shot in the dark…**_

Agent Trainee Angus MacVie had been crouching so long he started to get leg cramps. His fingers had been so tightly clenched around the pistol he could no longer feel them. When it seemed the negotiations over Agent Irene Edelweissen's immediate future were about to be concluded with the Russians' surrender, MacVie chanced stretching one leg to relieve the discomfort. A bolt of pure agony shot from his calf right up through his buttocks and spine, whereupon he yelped piteously and fell over backwards. His entire body jerked spasmodically… including the finger frozen to the trigger. That one involuntary reaction initiated a blitz.

The second shot, for which no one ever took credit, was later determined to be from an AK-74 39mm rifle so it had to be one of Godunov's men still on the loose. It wasn't aimed at the hacienda but that's where the projectile unerringly flew, penetrating an upstairs window. Glass shattered. Women and children shrieked.

That was the end of any earlier prohibitions regarding unnecessary shooting. The phones in the house, in the Man Cave slash dormitory, and at all four surveillance points lit up with Carl's _new_ instructions: _Game on!_

############

_**Fright and flight...**_

With Homeland Security hot on their tails, Godunov's men stumbled through briars, brambles and bushes where a rabbit couldn't go until bursting into the nut grove with its orderly ranked trees. Grateful to have acquired unimpeded ground which allowed them to pick up speed, they didn't realize they were heading directly toward the hacienda until it loomed in front of them. They skidded to a halt. Half scampered one way and the other half scarpered the other way… until cut off by shouts and gunfire coming at them diagonally from the corners of the building. They took cover wherever they could find any… rain barrels, lawn furniture, shrubbery, air conditioner units… and shot back in all directions. Not wishing to be caught in the crossfire, Homeland Security hid behind the insubstantial trunks of nut trees, taking potshots at muzzle flashes.

############

_**Pinball wizards...**_

The fruit tree grove devolved into a giant pinball field with the trees themselves serving as flippers and bumpers. SVB were the human pinballs and CIA the players. Shouts and gunshots replaced whistles and bells as pursuees and pursuers bounced from tree to tree, skittering ever closer to the hacienda. Sikorski's men soon found themselves in the same predicament as Gudonov's but with precious little cover. In desperation, two jumped into the swimming pool and one into the hot tub. A fourth ducked behind the bricked-in barbecue pit. Seeking refuge inside the house, a fifth man—with inhuman strength born of fear—picked up a vintage cast iron garden chair and propelled it toward the French doors.

############

_**Elsewhere in the house…**_

Anticipating hysteria at the first sound of breaking glass, Illya and Dennis hastened up the main staircase to find everyone quietly huddled against the walls of the gallery—the safest place to be away from windows. No crying, no sniffling. Illya attributed the calm behavior and lack of panic to his wife's command of the situation. Elise had been only eight years old during Vienna's last bombing in 1945, but she retained clear memories of her mother's ability to reassure terrified people in the basement shelters in which she served as air raid warden. Not for the first time Illya thanked his lucky star to have this remarkable woman in his life. Without her he never would have survived this long.

The original defunct window happened to be in Eli's room, thankfully unoccupied, but others were being destroyed at regular intervals, mostly downstairs. Though he couldn't bring himself to break one on purpose, Ducky settled on the scheme of moving from one already broken to the next, discharging a few rounds through each with the idea of fooling intruders into thinking there were more shooters in the house than just the four of them.

Jack just happened to be patrolling the dining room when the French doors disintegrated and the chair flew in with intruder still attached. Managing to keep his footing on the slippery shards of glass, the hapless refugee found a senior citizen pointing a pistol at his forehead.

"Go ahead… make my day," Jack cackled.

The man fumbled the chair, yowling as ninety pounds of cast iron landed on his foot.

############

_**In the Man Cave and into the dark...**_

The outbreak had commenced just as second watch was preparing to spell first watch, so those still in the Man Cave were already dressed and geared/partnered up—Diego/José, Geraldo/Emmanuel, Javier/Matías… and Jethro/Eli.

Gibbs got on the horn to Carl. "You want us to try to come out to you?"

"_Negative, negative. We're holding. Send your group out the back door and deploy 'em along a line covering the rear of the house."_

"Roger that."

"_Tell 'em stick to cover near the outbuildings. Let Ali Baba come to us."_

"Will do."

"_And Gibbs… if you spot anyone trying to rush the back door..."_

"Gotcha."

Gibbs sent three pairs out the back door with Carl's instructions, leaving just himself and Eli. Looking over a schematic of building placements, he put his finger on the one farthest to the east, where the heaviest and noisiest action was occurring. "Stay behind me until we're in position." A nod of acceptance was the only response he got from this kid who was the living, breathing embodiment of Ducky as he must've been in his twenties. They exited the back door and stealthily crept from shadow to shadow until reaching the rear entrance to the stable. The well-oiled door didn't squeal as they slid through into the breezeway. Interested heads popped over stall doors as they passed but the horses only whuffed in recognition. Noting the stable was built solidly enough to withstand any projectile impaction, Gibbs hoped the front entrance was equally bullet-proof… and oiled. It was.

"We're gonna open this just far enough to form an embrasure of sorts," he informed his companion, again getting a single nod. He applauded this kid's ability to keep cool… and not talk. It was a refreshing change from the near constant prattle of his coworkers back in the bullpen. No need for a headslap with this one.

While the majority of his concentration was on the fighting, a compartment of Gibbs' busy brain was still processing this new reality of Ducky having an entire _live_ family beyond his late mother. A tiny kernel of jealousy crept in as Gibbs wondered how Ducky really felt about his newly-discovered near-twin brother. In the twenty years they'd worked together, Jethro and Ducky had formed a fellowship as binding as brotherhood, despite the age difference. How would this new development affect _their_ relationship?

############

_**On the fire lane… like a deer in the headlights...**_

The men and women of the NCSO and CBII were having troubles of their own. They could plainly hear the fusillade erupting around the hacienda and observe the accompanying flashes and tracers.

"Follow me, men! We'll make a run through the vineyard!" Reagan yelled before leaping from the trail and attempting to sortie in that direction, only to splat against the eight-foot-tall woven-wire deer fence.

The sheriff sighed lugubriously, having already intuited that they probably couldn't get there soon enough to either put a stop to the imagined carnage or contribute their firepower to the defendants.

"He isn't from around these parts, is he?" Sheriff Taylor inquired casually of Reagan's XO.

"Nope," answered Agent Noritake, who was. "Just transferred up from LA two weeks ago."

"They don't have deer fences in LA?" Taylor asked of no one in particular.

"Nope," Deputy Bernstein tittered.

"Does anyone have wirecutters?" Agent Grapps piped up.

"You mean like the ones I used to escape from prison?" cracked Deputy Manyponies.

"Reckon we'll just have to walk back around the same way we got here," Agent Demarco griped.

"Reckon we don't," the sheriff disagreed. "There's a gate every hundred yards or so… you know… for farm equipment to get through? We only gotta walk as far as the next one."

"You could've said so sooner," Reagan groused, hobbling up with a handkerchief pressed to a bloody nose.

"You didn't ask."


	35. Chapter 35

_Chapter 35:_** MOPPING UP**

_**Saturday, 1:00am…**_

All battles must come to an end… and this one did with a great deal of whimpering, braggadocio, consternation and confusion. The Red Menace was ultimately contained by the stalwart upholders of America's security in league with Rama de Olivo's paramilitary bi-cultural forces. In a rare spirit of cooperation, the victors backslapped and gladhanded one another on their dramatic conquest. Amazingly, no fatalities resulted although there were severalbroken limbs, abrasions due to thorns and gravel, contusions and concussions induced by applications of fists and blunt instruments, a few relatively minor gunshot wounds, three twisted ankles and one compressed foot.

No one inside the hacienda was harmed other than the one semi-successful intruder. The exterior home team wasn't quite so fortunate although none required hospitalization. Three silent-running ambulances were summoned to whisk away injured invaders under guard to the county hospital. Except for the two leaders, the dejected remains of the Russian parties were handcuffed, tagged and herded onto vans bound for the county lockup, where they would be temporarily domiciled until other arrangements could be made. All uninjured and now non-essential members of the governmental task forces were conveyed in estate vehicles to their arrival points to reclaim their own. Casualties were transported via military ambulance to the VA hospital in Yountville, nineteen miles away.

Dennis and Elise persuaded everyone upstairs to return to their beds. Having had more than enough excitement in one day than his benign nature could tolerate, Dennis elected to join his wife in their bedroom. Elise, on the other hand, prepared to descend to the lower level with—metaphorically speaking—blood in her eye and verbal, if not physical, mayhem in mind. The conference of leaders in progress was about to be subjected to the wrath of a thoroughly outraged woman.

############

_**In the formal dining room…**_

Presiding at the head of the table was the enigmatic Special Advisor to the Director of Homeland Security, who'd emerged from the forest with every silver hair in place and not so much as a pine needle disturbing the fabric of his Savile Row suit. His Oxfords were likewise unblemished by leaf litter. No one saw him come in—he simply materialized out of thin air. He didn't introduce himself and no one had the temerity to ask his name. The one incurious man present had no need to ask because he already knew.

The Special Advisor exuded a palpable authority as he surveyed the eight men and lone woman seated at the table… Professor Elijah Bauer (Doctor of Philosophy [retired] and vineyard proprietor), Lead Agent Robert 'Bubba' Reagan (California Bureau of Investigation and Intelligence), Senior Officer Anatoly Godunov (Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye), Senior Special Agent Irene Edelweissen (Federal Bureau of Investigation), Major Vasili Sikorski (Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki), Supervisory Special Agent Jethro Gibbs (Major Case Response Team, Naval Criminal Investigative Service—in an unofficial capacity), Doctor Donald 'Ducky' Mallard (Chief Medical Examiner, Naval Criminal Investigative Service—also without portfolio), Sheriff Nathan Taylor (Napa County Sheriff's Office), and Carlos García (Estate Manager, Rama de Olivo Vineyards).

The star sapphire in the Special Advisor's pinky ring dazzled in the radiance of the crystal chandelier as he rose to address the conclave. He spoke softly but succinctly, in the modulated tones one could imagine a middle school headmaster might employ in pursuit of obedience in the face of truancy.

"Gentlemen… and madam… what took place here tonight was an unmitigated shitstorm of gargantuan proportions. Should it ever be revealed, the repercussions in American society would be horrendous. Fears of invasion by foreign nationals would run rampant. You think we have a gun control problem now? Imagine the consequences if word of this got out. Every Tom, Dick and Harry and all their relatives would have unlicensed weapons in their hands faster than you can say 'NRA.' We won't even go into the ramifications of a diplomatic incident. Therefore, _it never happened_. Do you understand?"

############

_**The Big Cover-Up…**_

A ripple of dissenting murmurs circled the table and a hand shot up.

"Excuse me, sir. Agent Gibbs, NCIS. With all due respect, there's no way you're gonna cover this up."

"Of course we can… and we will. Homeland Security has excuses and explanations for every occasion and we can do anything we want."

Another hand went up. "Sheriff Taylor, Napa County. Too many people are already involved… all those folks at the hospital and jail, for instance."

"Those people have been cautioned under Title 18 as amended."

"You mean threatened if they yapped." Taylor knew full well, as did Gibbs, that the century-old statute regarding national secrets had in recent years been well and truly gutted by freedom of speech proponents. The age of execution for espionage had also passed.

" 'Threatened' is such an ugly word. Let us say, discretion was encouraged."

"Anyone who heard the shooting—and that's probably half the county—is gonna want to know what was going on over here," García stated without bothering to raise a hand.

Other hands were being raised only to be dismissed by the Special Advisor. "If you would, please hold your comments and questions and permit me to continue."

All hands were withdrawn and replaced by expressions of doubt and a cessation of muttering.

"As we speak," the unperturbed Special Advisory continued, "roadblocks have been emplaced to deter concerned citizens from driving by to see what they can see, which at this remove is basically nothing. Tomorrow, Mssrs Taylor and Reagan, Ms Edelweissen and an undisclosed official of Homeland Security will collectively issue to the press and television media a statement of appreciation to Professor Bauer for graciously allowing use of his property for the purpose of conducting a joint night training exercise in antiterrorism. The site was chosen due to its diverse terrain and its location, relatively remote from more congested areas. There will be no mention of CIA presence. Persons who appeared to speak and dress as foreign nationals are in fact red-blooded Americans of Eastern European extraction, hand-picked _from among our own agents_ to lend authenticity to their roles as aggressors."

"What about property damage—all those broken windows?" demanded an aggrieved Carl just as Elise steamed into the room under full boiler pressure.

############

_**Elise lowers the boom…**_

"They damned well better be fixed tomorrow morning or I will be issuing my own damned statement."

Everyone seated leaped to his feet, except Edelweissen who wasn't socially obliged to do so. Professor Bauer aka Illya anxiously hurried around to his wife's side.

"Now, now, Lisa. Calm yourself. I am sure Mr… um…"

Taking her unoffered hand, the Special Advisor bowed over it in an old-fashioned courtly manner, his lips brushing the knuckles of her tightly clenched fist. "Leonidas Solomon, at your service, madam."

Elise's eyes met the Special Advisor's, widening for a microsecond before narrowing to slits that would do justice to a basilisk. He didn't blink an eye though he knew she knew exactly who he was… or had been in a past life.

"Mr Solomon, our granddaughter is being married here tomorrow afternoon," she hissed. "If anything… _anything at all_… interferes with this wedding, there will be absolute hell to pay. See what I'm saying?"

"With crystal clarity, Mrs Bauer. I assure you every last pane will be in place by noon." He bowed deferentially, indicating the empty chair next to his left side. "You are most welcome to remain while we conclude our meeting."

Illya returned to his own position on the Special Advisor's right side. With the lady of the house now seated, everyone else followed except Major Sikorski. "My colleague and I," he nodded at the sullen and unrepentant Godunov, "wish to know your intentions regarding our disposition."

"Glad you asked," said the Special Advisor. "You two and your men will be returned to your homeland at your earliest convenience. That is, we shall deliver you in utmost secrecy to a place of your choosing, to be collected by whatever means were prearranged. You will report to your superiors that your mission was successful in that the man you were sent to capture or terminate was indeed killed. Dead as the proverbial doorknob. A minor scuffle was unavoidable yet you all managed to effect an escape, albeit not entirely unscathed. I foresee in your future medals and perhaps a promotion or two, nyet?" The Special Advisor allowed himself a dry chuckle at his own wit.

"What if they go home and spill the beans?" Taylor asked.

"Bean spilling is not in their best interest, sir. Unless tradition has been relaxed under the new regime, failure to complete a mission generally results in a date with a firing squad. At least, that's the way it was back in my day."

############

_**Sunrise at the House of Broken Windows…**_

Guests and family members of the Bauer family were roused from their all too abbreviated slumbers upstairs by the racket going on downstairs. Between the baroooming of a heavy-duty shop vac sucking up glass shards and the shouts of the head glazier marshalling his minions, there was no way anyone could get back to sleep. By seven o'clock, lines formed outside bathroom doors.

Other guests and those employees who'd stayed overnight shambled out of the Man Cave to find squads with metal detectors scouring the grounds for shell casings. Garden tractors towing lawn sweepers and rotary harvesters quartered the orchards, removing fruits and nuts blasted out of trees. With buckets of Quikcrete stucco repair mud, Alonzo and Willy John circumnavigated the house, plugging missile pocks in the adobe. Inside, Tessa moved around wall hangings to temporarily disguise bullet holes in the walls.

In the distance, horns honked in exasperation as nosey parkers, hoping to spot something of interest now the roadblocks had been lifted, impeded legitimate traffic by driving too slowly up and down the county road.

By eight o'clock, most of the looky-loos gave up and went home. There really wasn't anything to see except guards at the closed gates to Rama de Olivo. In town, telephone lines were twanging with the gossip of citizens nursing coffees while watching the morning news on television. In hotel rooms, wedding-goers peered at _their_ televisions in perplexity.

By nine o'clock, Rosalia and Angela cleared up after the last of the breakfasters, lingering having been firmly discouraged. Lunch would be sandwiches only, prepared ahead and served on paper plates out on the pool deck, in order to make way for Chef LeBoeuf and her helpers. The day before, Rosalia and Angela had been shocked when informed by Elise and Tessa that their services would not be required for the reception. Instead, they were told to bring along their party frocks and their husbands' best Sunday suits as all four were to be honored guests at the wedding—and Gael by default as he was still there.

Elsewhere, Tessa supervised the temp maids, ensuring no housekeeping details were overlooked while constantly being interrupted by the ringing house phone. _Yes, Myrtle, the wedding's still on. No, Alan, the wedding's not cancelled. Yes, Julia, we plan to start cooking at ten. No, Mr Goldberg, today's not convenient to spray for termites._

By ten o'clock, the entire household was in an unholy uproar.

The younger children had been banished to the family room with strict orders to remain there until called to be dressed for their ceremonial roles (Gael excepted)—Noah being the ring-bearer and Olivia the flower girl.

By eleven o'clock, behind the closed doors of the informal dining room, the mobile salon ladies were wielding the tools of their trade on nails, hair and makeup. The bride, her mother, grandmother and aunts then repaired upstairs for final assembly. Next in for beautification were a very surprised Rosalia and Angela,who'd been booted out of the kitchen by the chef and handed over to Tessa.

Lunch was delayed somewhat and didn't appear until twelve-thirty, after which Tessa barked out marching orders to her cadre of waitstaff and parking directors. Eva and her attendants had their lunch brought to them upstairs.

At one o'clock, the caterers arrived and began setting up tables, chairs and awnings. The groom and father-of-the-groom were conscripted to carry out table arrangements before reporting upstairs to start getting dressed.

At five minutes to two, Elise took a breather from dashing up and down stairs. Checking her watch, she realized she hadn't seen Illya or Ducky since early morning—or Eli and Aidan, come to think of it. They _knew_ they were supposed to be upstairs and getting dressed no later than two o'clock. _Wherever you're hiding, you miserable wretches, I'll winkle you out and tear strips off all your hides._


	36. Chapter 36

_Chapter 36:_** A WEDDING WITH A TWIST**

_**Still Saturday… manure waits for no man...**_

"If two weeks ago anyone had told me what I'd be doing today…" Ducky shook his head.

"Wishing you were back in your nice clean morgue?" Illya quipped.

"Not at all. Wouldn't have missed this for the world."

They were mucking out stalls. The stable seemed as good a refuge as any from the chaos in the house. They snuck out directly after breakfast.

"I do not know if I will have the energy to go through this two more times with Aisling and Olivia," Illya said, pushing the barrow along to the last stall.

"You've already survived two… what's two more?" Ducky grunted, forking up another pungent pile. "You should know the drill by now."

"Katie and Maria both eloped. We did not meet our sons-in-law until after the fact."

"Think of all the money you saved," Ducky chortled.

"There is that," Illya agreed. "Chris did come for a visit to present Sarah, but they married in Australia. We were unable to attend as Elise was ill and travel forbidden."

"Did you approve of their choices?"

"Not at first but we did come to accept them. It has worked out well for Katie and Chris. Maria's marriage did not fare as well. They divorced shortly after Aisling was born. Were you ever tempted to marry?"

"More than once… however, it wasn't to be."

"What about children?"

"I don't know that I would have made a good father. No decent role model, you see."

"I believe we are done here," Illya declared, trundling the barrow out the back door while Ducky hung up his fork. Pulling off their gloves, they straightened and stretched, grinning ruefully.

" '_That is no country for old men,'_ " Ducky quoted, groaning.

" '_An aged man is but a paltry thing,'_" Jack quoted back, startling both men as he strolled out of the tack room with a saddle. Yeats was the last thing they would have expected to come out of the mouth of an ancient cowboy. Gibbs was right behind, also equipped with a saddle.

"How long have you two been in there?" Ducky demanded. "We could've used some assistance."

"Long 'nough ta see y'all didn't need no help," Jack said. "An' a little bit a hard work never kilt no one. 'Sides, me an' Jethro here was havin' us a good palaver 'bout life, the universe an' everythin'."

"So you're an Adams fan, too?" Ducky was bemused.

"Ah read everythin'. Done read all t'books in t'liberry back in Goat Rock."

"Surely you are not going riding now… and miss the wedding?" Illya queried.

"Been there, done that," Gibbs said. "Four times and never again."

"Twicet fer me an' 'at were two times too many," Jack said. "Ah done got me a allergy to weddins."

"Well said, old man," Gibbs slapped him on the back with his free hand. They pushed past and headed out to the pasture to catch up some horses. With their mouths hanging open, Illya and Ducky watched them go just as Eli and Aidan came through the front door, carrying between them a large cooler.

############

_**1:10pm… caught in flagrante…**_

The boys toted the cooler into the tack room without comment until all four were inside.

"One hopes that vessel contains food," Ducky ventured, famished after hours of unaccustomed physical labor.

"Yup. Grub. Vittles. Comestibles. And some soft drinks to wash it down with," Eli grinned. "We did a smash and grab at the lunch line and bar and got away before anyone caught us."

"It is noon already?" No wonder he was feeling peckish, Illya thought.

"Way past. They were running behind," Aidan said.

"We'd better eat quietly and quickly before they send the dogs out after us," Eli suggested.

"Or worse yet… Grandma," Aidan added, flipping up the lid. "If we're not back in the house by two, our asses'll be grass and she'll be the lawnmower."

The cooler yielded—in addition to an assortment of plastic-wrapped sandwiches—a family-sized bag of vinegar and salt potato chips, a jar of cold-pack garlic dill pickles, a handful of plastic plates, a tube of plastic cups, a six-pack of Coors, and one bottle each of Stolichnaya and Macallan.

The sandwiches were gone, the pickle jar half-empty, the liquor bottles had substantial dents in them, and the boys were down to the last two beers before the tack room door was wrenched open. Elise's face was pink.

"Ruh roh," Eli squeaked through a mouthful of chips as Aidan choked on a mouthful of beer.

Illya and Ducky froze, each with a bottle in one hand and a cup in the other.

Elise's roar of fury reverberated off the walls.

############

_**3:00pm… an unusual ceremony unfolds…**_

In the serried ranks of white wooden chairs facing the front portico, nearly a hundred guests—mostly relatives and friends of the Garcías—fidgeted and murmured among themselves. Although the afternoon was by no means uncomfortably warm, the small folding Oriental fans that had been provided were fluttering like so many peach and teal butterflies. The quartet—two violins and two cellos—filled the air with softly played largos.

The floral arch, under which the nuptials were to be performed by a secular officiant, had been erected on the top step of the portico before the open double doors. There was no center aisle, leaving the guests wondering from which direction the elements of the bridal party would advance. They'd been amply forewarned by humorous flourishes in the otherwise formal invitation that this would not be a conventional ceremony. Dress: Casual and comfortable with footwear suitable for walking on grass.

From the open doors emerged a Latino woman clad in entirely in black—an elegant brocaded tunic over flowing patio pants—carrying an iPad instead of a bible. Bob and Eva had written their own vows, which Justice of the Peace Magdalena Delgado skillfully integrated into the customary phrasing required by law to unite a couple in matrimony. The digitized version resided in her iPad for handy reference. Positioning herself under the arch, Justice Delgado nodded to the quartet, who serenely segued into Bach's famous prelude for cello. A hush came over the crowd as the bride's and groom's entourages processed in stately formation from around opposing corners of the house.

The observers were enthralled in suspense—should they stand or continue sitting? Where were the bridesmaids? The groomsmen? The ushers who normally conducted parents and grandparents to their seats? And where the heck was the groom, who normally would be standing front and center awaiting his bride?

The two columns converged in a baroque _passepied_ as they fanned out on either side of the arch. Eva's multiple ladies of honor included Katie, Elise, Tessa, Maria, Sarah and Aisling—each in a distinctive style suiting her frame but all in teal blue. Bob's best men were Carlos, Dennis, Illya, Chris, Eli and Aidan—each in teal guayaberas and black trousers.

A tense few moments passed with no sign of the bride _or_ groom. Breaths were held and then let out in a collective whoosh as Bob—in a white guayabera—strolled around from one corner, preceded by Noah the ring bearer. Approaching the arch, he pantomimed looking around for his bride-to-be and mugged the tittering audience, shrugging and holding his hands palm up as if to say, 'Where could she be?'

The quartet broke into 'She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain When She Comes,' Mozart-style. Amusement yielded to laughter as the congregation realized what they were hearing. Decorum was swiftly restored as, from around the other corner, Eva made her grand entrance behind flower girl Olivia.

The traditional veil having been eschewed, the bride's head was crowned with a circlet of flowers matching the peach gerberas and blue asters of her bouquet. She wore an ankle-length halter-top sundress in candlelight silk charmeuse, with a side slit revealing a tantalizing glimpse of shapely tanned leg. Evidently 'who gives this woman' wasn't to be part of _this_ ceremony. As she reached the arch, she shot the onlookers a wide grin and a thumbs-up. Eva Roman was boldly and proudly giving herself away.

The couple met and turned to face the judge and—for the time being—solemnity prevailed over levity as Roberto Miguel García and Evaluna Tatiana Roman were officially made man and wife.

############

_**3:30pm… the post-wedding retrospective…**_

After all the clapping and cheering subsided and guests began breaking off into groups for après-nuptial retrospection, caterers surreptitiously gathered chairs and moved them to the tables. A buffet line was quickly set up and servers bearing trays glided out of the house.

Elise collapsed into a chair at one of the tables with a placard designating it as reserved for members of the wedding. Fanning herself vigorously, she accepted a flute of champagne from an attentive server, one of the vineyard workers' daughters.

"Is this table taken?" Illya humbly appealed as he and Ducky cautiously approached. Elise had been giving both the cold shoulder since apprehending them skiving off in the tack room.

"You may sit," came the icy response.

The server hastily filled two more flutes.

"We'll take it from here, Gina," Elise addressed the young woman pleasantly. "Please do go attend the guests." The girl backed away with a curtsy as the two men seated themselves.

"May we expect to be forgiven in the not too distant future?" Ducky asked. He'd declined his brother's request that he join the lineup of best men. He didn't know all that much about wedding protocol but he understood his inclusion would have upset the balance in the numbers of attendants… and that women were funny about such details. However, yielding to Elise's pleas that he put aside the sober suit and wear the same garments as the best men, he and Illya were dressed alike.

"At least your brother wasn't too inebriated to do his part," Elise allowed in a slightly thawed tone. "So I'll think about it."

"Thank you, my love." Illya contrived to look appropriately contrite. "I shall endeavor to do better next time."

"Do you think it went well, all things considered?" Elise queried. In the course of many months of planning, there had been frequent disagreements between grandmother and daughter, mother and daughter, and grandmother and granddaughter over traditional versus non-traditional rites.

The biggest hurdle had been religious in nature. The stolidly Catholic Garcías and Elise were pushing for a proper wedding mass but Eva balked at the six months of instruction required for conversion. Not to mention, she argued, she had nothing from which _to_ convert, having never been baptized in _any_ faith. Dennis had been brought up Russian Orthodox, more or less, as had Illya in his brief time with the gypsies. That had come to an end once he'd passed into the hands of Soviet bureaucracy, which promulgated scientific atheism. The Bauers and Romanovs weren't churchgoers so held no strong views either way, and Bob was willing to buck his family on the issue. Eva was determined their wedding would be unique, non-conformist and secular. There would be no speeches. She got her way in the end.

"It was absolutely beautiful," Illya assured his wife, secretly relieved he hadn't been forced to spend hours on his knees—and clouds of incense gave him headaches. "If Eva is happy, then I am happy."

"I thought it was quite… er… entertaining," Ducky commented. "Well received if a trifle unorthodox compared to the rather stuporous fêtes I have been compelled to endure in the past."

They were raising their second rounds in a toast when they became aware of Tessa shepherding two couples in their direction.

############

_**3:30pm… the dance of disingenuity**_

The threesome automatically got to their feet as the oncomers drew within facial recognition distance. Ducky caught Illya's look of surprise and Elise's panicked countenance. Not only that, he actually _felt_ his brother's shock as clearly as if he'd touched a live wire. Ducky didn't know these people but clearly three of the guests had been expecting to engage with a particular individual and had been thrown off by the presence of a duplicate. It was impossible to miss their fleeting expressions of disbelief… or the way their eyes flickered in confusion from one man to the other.

Sensing pre-existing if not immediately acknowledged links among this group, the consummate event planner adhered to protocol. "Doctor Mallard, Professor Bauer, Mrs Bauer… I'd like you to meet friends of mine… April and Robert Hart—newlyweds themselves, incidentally—and their in-laws Mark and Alice Slate, visiting from England. April and I sit on the boards of the William Holden Wildlife Foundation and several other environmental conservancies." Tessa then tactfully excused herself to mingle with other guests.

As his coworkers could attest, the medical examiner possessed a mischievous streak that from time to time manifested itself at the most inopportune moments. Ducky could prank with the best of them, especially with a tank of high octane alcohol under his belt. Suckering Gibbs with the guessing game had been so much fun he was moved to try it on again with these folks. He sidled close to Illya so they stood shoulder to shoulder.

Obviously Ducky's deviltry communicated itself to Illya, who played along while offering his hand to Mark. "Elijah Bauer. You seem familiar. It is possible we may have met before although I do not immediately recall the time, place or occasion."

Ducky also shook hands with Mark. "Donald Mallard. Not good with faces, I'm afraid… but your name rings a bell."

"Mark Slate. Used to do a bit of security consulting in various overseas government sectors… perhaps that's where we've crossed paths?"

Intuiting a game was afoot, Robert heartily exchanged handshakes with Illya and Ducky in turn. "Robert Hart, semi-retired actor. I'm sure _I've_ never met any of you but you might recognize me from film and television," he supplied smoothly.

With a fake smile plastered to her face, Elise's handclasps went to April and Alice and their husbands. "And I'm Lisa. Any friends of Tessa's are friends of ours. We're so pleased you were able to join us on this happy occasion."

Old habits and ingrained training never fade away. The three couples and odd man out embarked on the sort of disingenuous exchange with which Ducky was very familiar. It was a well-established rite in the social circles of Washington's Foggy Bottom, when previously-introduced partygoers couldn't remember one another's names. Fishing expeditions disguised as pleasantries were bandied about until some commonality was achieved. With names, ranks and/or connections restored to memory, the parties could retreat with embarrassment averted and pride intact.

The guests were obviously employing this maneuver in an attempt to catch out the real Illya.

Alice squeezed Mark's arm. "Oh, I know where we met, honey. It was at the Beldons' anniversary bash at Claridge's, remember? Back in the sixties?" Harry Beldon, a confirmed bachelor, had been Illya's superior at UNCLE's London headquarters. As for Claridge's, Illya had never set foot in that august edifice.

"Ah yes," Ducky interpolated brightly, "though I seem to remember it was the Ritz-Carlton in New York City… a birthday party for a beloved _uncle_, was it not, Lisa?"

Lisa simpered. "You expect me to remember? It was a _very_ long time ago."

"Gosh," April batted her eyelashes, "I haven't been to the Big Apple or a decent couturier in simply ages. Alice… what was the name of that one we used to visit… house of something?"

"House of Vanya, darling," Alice simpered. "Bought out by Ralph Lauren, I believe."

"Nice suit," Illya directed at Mark. "Brioni?"

"Gieves & Hawkes, London," Mark said. "Unfortunately, it's in need of attention. Can you recommend a good drycleaner in the area?"

"You would have to ask Tessa about that. Establishments one can trust to treat one's bespoke suit with the care its expense deserves are rather thin on the ground in northern California," Illya said.

Mark continued. "When I worked in New York in the sixties, I patronized a little one-man shop called Del Floria's. There wasn't a spot the old man couldn't eradicate. Wonder if he's still in operation?"

"Not likely but one never knows." Illya shrugged. "You might want to try the internet for a website."

_**3:45pm… the guided tour…**_

Noting perambulating clusters of guestsmoving nearer, Elise decided it would be prudent to retreat to more private territory. "Would you care for a tour of the premises?" She gestured toward the house and began walking away without waiting for an answer. "The hacienda itself dates back over two hundred years. Completely renovated, of course, but retains many of its original features."

"Capital idea!" Mark exclaimed, taking Alice's arm. "Come, my dear."

"Love to!" April exclaimed, taking Robert's arm.

As they moved off after the others, he whispered in her ear. "So which one is the dead spy… and did you know he had a twin?"

"No idea on both counts," she whispered back. "I almost peed my pants when I first saw them."

"And I thought Ronnie would pee hers when she recognized her little Russian friend up there among the groomsmen." He coughed to cover up a chuckle.

"Where has she got off to, anyway?"

"Not sure but I thought I saw her following him inside."

"This is going to be interesting," April said.

"No shit," Robert replied cheerfully.

############

_**3:50pm… hell hath no fury…**_

April's printed invitation, delayed enroute by having to be forwarded, had arrived the same day Ronnie received hers via text message. At first they hadn't grasped they were being invited to the _same_ wedding. However, after laughing over the coincidence, Veronica Slate arrived at a realization which she chose not to share with her grandmother.

First of all, Ronnie had forgotten that Eva's last name was _Roman_. Second, the address on her grandmother's invitation matched the directions given by Eva in the text message—the _same_ address Ronnie had snooped on Eli Roman's driver's license. Third, prior to leaving Montana she'd managed to extract from Jack Harper that Eli's abrupt departure was occasioned by an obligation to return home for a family event. Ergo, Eva and Eli had to be either siblings or cousins and the man himself would most certainly be in attendance.

Robert rented a Ford Skyliner luxury motorcoach for the hour and a half journey from Bodega to Angwin. He drove with Mark riding shotgun while April and Alice chatted in the back seats. Ronnie had the third row to herself, where she brooded in vengeful silence during the entire trip. Arriving at their destination, they parked and made their way to the seating area for guests, choosing a row of empty chairs toward the back.

As the two arms of the wedding party took their places, Ronnie missed her grandparents' agitation. Her attention was zeroed in on that one individual among the groomsmen.

April leaned over to whisper in her ear, "Isn't that your Russian pianist from the recital?"

"Ukrainian." Ronnie ground her teeth.

With the ceremony over and guests beginning to sort themselves, Ronnie furtively detached herself from her relatives, eyes locked on the prize as he slipped into the house. Eeling her way through the crowd, she pursued her prey with the single-minded tenacity of a beagle running a rabbit to ground.

Eli wasn't hard to locate. Directly she entered the foyer, Ronnie heard the strains of Chopin's nocturne opus nine pouring through the open doors of the great room to her left. The baby grand was positioned in such a manner that Eli had his back to the door. He didn't hear her come in or gently close and lock the doors behind her. Ronnie stewed silently for several minutes in an attempt to compose herself, but—in this case—music had no charms to soothe a savage breast. Red mist rising, she tiptoed up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.

As Eli twisted around, Ronnie clocked him with a haymaker worthy of Muhammad Ali, knocking him over along with the bench.

"You bastard! That's for running out on me…"

"Ronnie? What the… _ow!_" A sandaled foot connected painfully with his thigh._ "OW!"_

"… without saying goodbye or even kiss my ass. You sorry sack of Siberian snake shit!"

Availing herself of a large vase of flowers from the top of the piano, Ronnie dumped the contents on Eli's head. Being in an indefensible position—flat on his back with his legs entangled with those of the upended bench—he could only plead with his assailant to calm down.

"I can explain…"


	37. Chapter 37

_Chapter 37:_** CONNECTING THE DOTS**

_**Wherein a thirty year absence is accounted for… **_

Passing under the arch and pausing her party just inside the entryway, Elise launched into docent mode. Adopting an appropriately dulcet tone, she launched into her spiel. "As you can see, two corridors diverge on either side of the staircase. To your right are the informal and formal dining rooms, the kitchen, laundry and storerooms. To your left we have the great room."

As she reached for the doorknob, there came from within a stream of invective in a strident female voice, the whump of furniture and a body hitting the floor, and a male voice yelping in alarm. Hastily intercepted and maneuvered away from the door by Illya, Elise soldiered on with élan, ushering the party down the hallway as if nothing untoward was taking place behind those closed doors.

"Originally, a ballroom extended the entire length of the house. During renovation it was reconfigured into the great room, a business office, a library which doubles as a study, a family room and a lavatory. These all feature additional interior insulation for the purposes of privacy and noise suppression, so one is not distracted by..."

Illya held up a hand. "Enough, Elise. Let us put an end to this charade. Come. You, too, Ducky." With that he led them into the library.

An uncomfortable silence descended on the round table as everyone waited for Illya, clearly unsettled, to lead off. What at first Ducky had taken to be a reunion of old friends now appeared to be something else entirely. A faint air of hostility emanated from Elise and two of the guests.

"Suffice to say, this is somewhat of a shock for all of us." Illya finally spoke, slowly and deliberately, with the air of one methodically organizing his thoughts while refusing to yield to emotional displays. "I imagine you have questions."

"You think?" April scowled as her varnished nails tapped an impatient tattoo on the table's polished surface. "If _you're_ Illya, then who's _he?_" she added rather rudely, nodding at Ducky.

"Donald is my brother. He knows all about our UNCLE history. You may speak openly."

"I don't recall anything in your file about a twin brother, Illya," Mark muttered.

"We are not twins, and I did not know I had a brother until recently. Neither did he. Frankly, how that came about is not your concern."

"Do you have any idea of the trouble your disappearance caused us?" April said. "It was rumored you'd gone back to the KGB… or that you'd been a double agent all along."

"Baseless, I can assure you," Illya parried, completely dead-pan.

"We didn't want to believe it," April shot back. "Nevertheless, because we'd been such close friends, internal affairs assumed we knew _something_. We were suspended and interrogated. Even Napoleon was called back in and grilled. He wasn't too pleased about that, I can tell you."

"All I can say, April, is that I am very sorry. Surely you were cleared and restored to duty?" He might have saved his breath, remembering full well how, once such an accusation was made, everyone within an agent's orbit immediately fell under suspicion and remained there until proven innocent. Even then, partnerships rarely survived such incidents.

Mark took over. "Eventually, yes… but the taint remained, to the extent that thereafter our responsibilities were restricted and activities curtailed. It didn't matter so much to me… I was approaching the age cutoff anyway… but April was still young enough she had many more years of field service ahead. She resigned not long afterwards, citing the impossibility of continuing to work effectively under a cloud of suspicion."

Illya sighed. "Again, I can only apologize. My actions had nothing to do with you or Napoleon."

"Where have you been all these past years?" Mark demanded.

"That, too, is irrelevant."

Elise couldn't contain herself. "Do you not understand the pressure Illya was under? Being held accountable for a bungled mission that wasn't his fault… threatened with possible discharge from UNCLE. No wonder he resigned. Though he wasn't immediately recalled by KGB, they let it be known he _could_ be at any time."

Illya made a futile attempt to calm his wife. "Don't blame Mark or April—there was nothing they could have done about any of that."

"No… let me finish," Elisa stormed, on the verge of tears. "Then they have the nerve, fifteen years later, to coerce Illya into yet another dangerous operation. We had a good life by then, a family… which he jeopardized by allowing Napoleon Solo to guilt him into participating.

"It wouldn't have stopped there… you know that. Even though that last mission was successful, they put watchers on us, April. They poked into every crevice and cranny of our lives... they even watched our _children. _UNCLE can just be damned! To preserve our safety _and_ our sanity it was necessary to get away, as far away as possible… where neither UNCLE nor KGB could ever find us with their impossible demands."

"And is that what happened?" April directed her query to Illya in a considerably more civil tone.

"It is. Elise and I took ourselves out of play for either side. We made a new life… a successful, _peaceful_ life… which we have every hope of continuing. Unfortunately, this now depends on you four." Illya's self-control appeared to have slipped a cog as he put every ounce of supplication into his next words. "Our fate is in your hands. I appeal to you now, my old friends—begging you—forget this chance meeting. Do no damage to my family by revealing my prior or current existence."

In the contemplative interval which followed, Alice spoke up. "For what it's worth, I believe that, faced with similar circumstances, we would have done exactly the same. Mark, do you agree?"

"I do. Thank God we never had to. April… what about you? Are you still angry? As I see it, Illya and Elise had no choice."

All choler seemed to have leached from the other woman's attitude. "It's my turn to apologize. I had no idea it was as bad as all that. You have my word, your secret is safe."

"As far as my lady wife and I are concerned," Mark affirmed, "you may rest easy on that score, mate. Our lips are sealed."

The Bauers heaved a great sigh of relief.

Ducky hadn't said a word until now. His query went to April. "What about your husband. Do you speak for him as well?"

April smiled for the first time since they'd entered the room. "Robert knows the general bones of our association with UNCLE. I'll have to explain it to him later, of course."

"And then she'll have to shoot me," Robert quipped. "Too bad. I was really getting into this secret agent thing."

"I'm sure you would've made a grand one, dear." April patted his hand. "But you'd better promise not to talk or I will."

"I have another question," Ducky said. "Does this UNCLE organization still exist… and is Illya still wanted by them?"

April and Mark glanced at each other but Mark answered. "We're not at liberty to say officially… however, I did make inquiries. Illya's dossier was retired years ago… rendered inactive and later presumed deceased."

"Does this mean you're free to come out of the closet, Illya?" Ducky asked.

Illya and Elise exchanged long looks before he spoke. "It is too late to turn back the clock, brother. Even if I could, I would not wish to." To his former associates he said, "You must accept that the man I was—the man you knew—is dead. The odds are against our paths ever again crossing. When you leave here, you must pretend this never happened and that we were never acquainted."

As her companions nodded their heads in understanding, April's nails were once again drumming the table. "We might have a teensy weensy little problem with that, Illya."

"What do you mean?" He instantly went on the defensive.

"That couple having a spat in the library? If I'm not mistaken they're our mutual granddaughter Veronica and her piano-playing boyfriend—your grandson Elijah."

############

_**4:15pm in the**__** great room**__**… **__**wherein someone's clock is cleaned**__**…**_

The physical portion of the assault appeared to be over as Ronnie towered over the stunned Eli. "You'd better have a reasonable explanation for disappearing like that… and _not even calling_ to let me know you were all right."

"I do… I have..."

"Then stand up like a man and start talking."

"You gonna hit me again?"

"It depends. I might… if don't like what I hear."

Eli staggered to his feet and dropped into an easy chair facing the one Ronnie appropriated. He could almost feel himself turning to stone under her Medusian glare, afraid to so much as swipe at the water trickling down his face from his soaked hair.

"Let's have it then."

"It's complicated," Eli protested. "A lot's happened since…"

She checked her watch with an ostentatious flourish. "The cliffnotes summation, if you please. You've got five minutes."

The accounting poured out in a rush of what, on the surface, seemed utter nonsense—the threat of thugs tailing him to get to his grandfather, the escape aided and abetted by Jack, the skunk interlude, the accident with the children, the uncharged cell phone, the revelation of a previously unknown great-uncle, the attack by persons unknown…

"So that's why I had to cover my tracks and leave without notice. Couldn't risk involving you or the others. The less you knew about where I went, the safer we'd all be… and…"

"Stop," Ronnie commanded, checking her watch again. "Your five minutes are up. Let me think about this."

Eli sat perfectly still, waiting for her to render her decision on his patently ridiculous recitation. Ronnie's expression grew pensive as she leaned forward, elbows on knees and hands steepled under chin. He thought… hoped… he detected a softening of attitude.

"That is such an absurd tale I'm inclined to believe it."

"I swear it's all true… you can ask my mother, my grandfather."

A crease appeared between the girl's eyes as she pondered. "Your grandfather… he's the man in the picture, isn't he?" She was of course speaking of the photograph that had caused her meltdown that afternoon in her dorm room.

"Yeah."

"So he was some kind of covert government agent during the Cold War, like my grandparents."

"Yeah."

"That lends credence to your story but doesn't absolve your lack of communication, Eli."

"I know. Sorry about that. I meant to answer your texts, then things went out of control. I put it off too long. I guess I chickened out, afraid you'd be too mad to ever talk to me again."

"Oh, I was mad, all right… and sick with worry that something had happened to you and I'd never see you again."

"Yet here we are."

"You can wipe that stupid grin off your face. I haven't forgiven you… yet."

############

_**Meanwhile, in the library… a meeting adjourns…**_

Elise glanced at her wristwatch. "Oh my stars and garters! We've been in here almost an hour. We must get back to our other guests before they start leaving. Everyone will be wondering what's become of us."

"My love, I imagine they are all too busy eating to have noticed our absence," Illya advised drolly. "And speaking of food…"

"Yes, yes… of course. We'd better hurry or there'll be nothing left but crumbs."

Now the air had been cleared, there really wasn't enough time left to engage in anecdotal remembrances or catching up on the adventures of April and Mark in the three decades since Illya and Elise had last seen them. No discussion of the past could continue once they left the confines of the library… not here anyway. It was agreed, however, that it would be perfectly natural for the Harts and Slates to initiate a new friendship with the Bauers, which _could_ lead to social occasions in the future… particularly if such association happened to coincide with a romantic liaison between their respective grandchildren.

"I'd ask you to stay over but we're packed to the rafters as is," Elise put forth delicately.

"Thank you for the thought," April answered. "As we're summering in Bodega Bay it would be silly not to return home this evening."

As they moved toward the door, Mark snapped his fingers. "Oh, one last thing… after that last mission of yours and Napoleon's—in '85, I believe—we lost all contact with him."

"As did we, I am afraid."

"We've heard conflicting reports about his whereabouts. Some say he's passed away. Others claim he's changed his name and is working for the CIA or some other such secret organization. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Illya?"

"No. Sorry. We do not."

############

_**4:45pm in the**__** great room**__**… true love never runs smooth…**_

Regarding Ronnie through a rapidly swelling eye, Eli felt a sudden fluttering in the general area of his heart, a somewhat unpleasant constriction in his gut, and a blinding flash of illumination. She wasn't just the lovely girl he'd been privileged to make love with during those few short weeks in Montana… she was the woman he was _in love_ with. Common sense evaporated in a cloud of euphoria as he dropped to his knees and reached for her hands.

Eluding his grasp, she ruffled his hair before firmly pushing him away. "Before you ask what I suspect you're about to ask, don't."

"Why not?" Eli pleaded. "I love you, Veronica Slate. I want us to be together."

"It's an inviting proposition and the feeling is mutual, but…"

"But what? I want to marry you!"

"There are any number of reasons why that's just not on."

"Like what?"

"Let me count the ways… first of all, have you finished university?"

"Not yet… but I will. I promise."

"Do you have a job or _any_ sort of meaningful occupation?"

"Not exactly."

"Do you have a plan in place for your future?"

"Not as such… but I swear I'm working on it."

Ronnie sighed. "You have a lot of growing up yet to do, Eli."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"How about you stop being sorry for everything and just get on with it?"

Eli was crushed. "Does this mean no… or _never_?"

"It means let's see how we go forward as _friends_. I just graduated. _My_ career is just beginning. At least, I hope it is. I won't have time for any sort of long-term commitment, much less marriage."

"But… when will I ever see you? You'll be back in England."

"No. I won't. I'm staying in Bodega Bay for the summer with my grandparents. After that I've decided to live in the Bay Area or Los Angeles. We'll have opportunities to see each other until summer's over. After that, only time will tell."

It wasn't what Eli wanted to hear but he realized the truth of her words and resolved that he'd win this woman… one way or another… and sooner rather than later.


	38. Chapter 38

_Epilogue:_** AULD LANG SYNE**

_**Leave-takings...**_

Ronnie was thrilled to find Jack Harper in residence along with her beloved Zada. As it was already dark when the Harts and Slates finally took their leave, Jack waited until the following day to trailer the horse to Bodega Bay, with Eli doing a ride-along. They'd both stay for a week and then Jack would drop Eli off at the vineyard on his way home.

Although April welcomed Eli to come whenever he could and stay as long as he liked, it was Ronnie who made the rules: every other weekend would be adequate visitation, and in his downtime (he was so instructed), he was to expedite getting his act together.

The Bauers, Harts and Slates all exchanged reciprocal open invitations to visit. In a few weeks, Mark and Alice Slate would depart on British Airways, a ten-hour flight to London. As they normally traveled once or twice a year to visit Alice's New York relatives, they would in future incorporate into those trips a West Coast sojourn to see their granddaughter. Illya and Elise expected to see them a few more times while they were still houseguests at Bodega Bay. On their first visit, Illya promised, he'd explain the existence of his half-brother and how they'd found each other—not the _real_ version, naturally… but the one concocted for public consumption.

Alaska Air carried away Bob and Eva García on their honeymoon… six hours to Honolulu. In two weeks, they'd return to their San Francisco apartment and resume their university studies at fall quarter.

Dennis and Katie returned to their home in Daly City and their respective laboratories. The rejected suitor had cried on her shoulder, figuratively speaking. Katie's heart ached for her lovelorn son, but her head applauded the girl's surprising perspicacity in turning him down. She also determined to have a very firm word with her overindulgent father about his contributions to Eli's waywardness. She knew why he did it—it was Illya's subconscious compensation for all he'd been denied as a child, adolescent and young adult. But enough was enough and it was past time for Eli to grow up.

Tearful farewells were exchanged at San Francisco International airport as Chris and his family prepared to board their fifteen hour flight back to Melbourne. Two hours later, Maria shepherded her kids aboard Aer Lingus, ten hours nonstop to Dublin. The siblings pledged to return for Christmas holidays when the children were out of school. Aisling and Gael promised to keep in touch. Aidan plotted ways to convince his mother they should emigrate to the States and move to California.

Donald Mallard and Jethro Gibbs wangled adjacent first-class seats on United to Washington-Dulles. It took almost the entire five and a half hours for Ducky to explain, _sotto voce_ and without going into _all_ the details, the discovery of the half-brother relationship. He and Gibbs agreed there would be no mention of the nighttime raid once they were back at work on home territory. Gibbs swore he'd share nothing with their crew other than Ducky had found a brother.

Ducky kept to himself the matter of Illya's former life and the meeting of UNCLE cohorts although it was probably only a matter of time before Jethro weaseled it out. He always did. Ducky and Illya made a pact to keep in touch via suitably ambiguous texts… and that Ducky would come again next year on his vacation. It was arranged that Eli would come to Ducky for the month of September, as his next quarter didn't start until October. Understanding that he was too close to the forest to see the trees, Illya hoped that Ducky would able to apply a more pragmatic approach to Eli's difficulties.

_**One day at a time…**_

A cleanup crew eradicated all vestiges of the wedding festivities. Vineyard operations returned to normal. A bumper crop of grapes promised an extraordinarily abundant harvest in the fall… and tranquility once again reigned at Rama de Olivo. Illya and Elise finally relaxed.

"Have you given any further thought to living here permanently?" Elise asked as they strolled in the shade of the fruit orchard.

"I have." He stopped and turned to take her hands. "But before I tell, what are yours?"

"My vote is yes. I hope we have many more years together, and I would prefer to spend them in a more hospitable climate. Also, I'm tired of traveling and this is so much more convenient for our family to visit."

"Are you quite sure? No sentimental attachment to our home of thirty years?"

"Home is where the heart is, Illya. My heart is with you, wherever we are."

"Then let us do it. We will have to go back one last time to pack up, say goodbye to our friends and put the house on the market."

"I'm in favor of selling as is, furnishings and all. It's time to downsize. We arrived with only a few boxes. Let's leave the same way, with only what's most important."

"September would be a good time. Harvest season will be in full sway here, so we will be out of the way. And the weather will still be nice there—not too cold."

"Good. That's settled, then."

Back in the house, Illya retrieved a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon and two crystal flutes. They repaired to the conservatory and sat before the tinkling fountain, exchanging toasts to their future and their love for each other.

"Were you as shocked as I was at seeing Napoleon after all this time?" Elise queried, apropos of nothing.

Illya hesitated. "Yes… and no. Leonidas Solomon and Elijah Bauer live… but Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin are gone with the wind… those days of derring-do are long done."

"For all our sakes, I hope that's true." Elise shivered.

There remained, as always, the possibility of future interruptions in their lives… but for now their mantra was _'One Day at a Time.'_

############ **THE END**############

_**Profound thanks go to my patient collaborators and betas—RK4SL and Westfalen**_

_**Note:**__ To the rightful owners of __**NCIS**__ and __**Man From U.N.C.L.E**__…. please forgive my indulgence in a flight of fancy involving your characters._

_**Note:**__ Single children share 50% DNA with their siblings. Monozygotic (identical) twins share 99.9% DNA with each other.__ Dizygotic (fraternal) twins share 50% DNA from the mother but only 25% DNA from the father. They share 75% of the combined DNA with each other._

_**Note: **__Yep… I admit it! I've gone and blatantly plagiarized my own self… liberating OCs and lifting entire descriptions and sentences almost verbatim from another story in another fandom having absolutely nothing to do with NCIS or MFU (and which no one's ever read, judging by the glaring absence of reviews). Also… due to a stupendous lack of attention to continuity on my part, the events of that __other__ story actually take place in a different time frame—and it's entirely too much trouble to adjust this one to match that one. So sue me!_


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